


Every Little Thing He Does Is

by a_sparrows_fall, kaitovsheiji



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Earth 57289, M/M, Magic-Users, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Tony Stark Hates Magic, Wizarding World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 16:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitovsheiji/pseuds/kaitovsheiji
Summary: Steve Rogers, an auror recently resurrected from a grim fate, is having trouble adjusting to life in twenty-first century New York. When did everything become so… unmagical?He finds an unlikely companion in Tony Cerrera, a scientist working at Rhodes Industries.Steve’s feelings for Tony are blossoming into something deeper than friendship, but there’s more to Tony than meets the eye.A modern-day Wizarding World fusion story based in Earth 57289.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaitovsheiji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitovsheiji/gifts).



> Thanks SO MUCH to kaitovsheiji for being the best art partner and co-brainstormer an author could ever have!! Please, please check out the [amazing art for the story here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11207637)
> 
> Thank you to [shetlandowl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shetlandowl) for the beta!
> 
> This story:  
> \- Uses 616, Ultimates, and the MCU variously to flesh out the Rhodes Industries ‘verse (Earth 57289), which there is only one canon panel of.  
> \- Is semi-spoilery for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, as it gives away some concepts and creatures from that movie, and hints at a couple of its plot points.  
> \- Does NOT reference anything from JK Rowling’s Magic in North America series, in case you were worried about that.  
> \- Is non-spoilery for Cursed Child Parts 1 & 2, although it is canon compliant with the timeline for that story.

Timidly, but bearing a promise of things to come, pink blossoms are beginning to reappear on the tree next to McDonagh’s newsstand at the corner of Broadway and Chambers.

Steve Rogers, auror, notes them briefly, squinting slightly at the bright spring sun, before asking Laleh at the stand for his usual.

“One cold pumpkin juice,” she confirms, pressing a button on the countertop in front of her, “and one Daily Conjurer.”

A panel on the side wall of her stand slides back, revealing a hidden space full of merchandise not for nomaj eyes; the images on the front page of the paper move with a soothing familiarity.

Even at little sidewalk shops, it’s all tech now, no spellcasting necessary. It’s silly, probably, but Steve misses old Mr. McDonagh flicking his wrist and using _revelio_ to access his magical stores. He’d do it with a flourish, whether it was his first time meeting a customer or his five-hundredth.

Laleh retrieves Steve's items with a smile and hands them to him; he pays in galleons, and she doesn’t comment on his penchant for the print version of the periodical, or his use of cash; they’ve had that conversation many times already.

He tucks the paper under his arm and is about to leave when she nods at the shoulder of his jacket.

“Nice patch,” she says, sincerely. “One of those new... retro things, right? It looks really good. Authentic.”

Embroidered in white and navy, the logo for the “Chicago Flyers” is a little studebaker with wings on its side. The patch is attached with a few different colors of thread stitched around its edges, like it’s been sewn on more than once.

The Chicago Flyers played their last Quidditch match in 1945. Steve wishes he could have seen it.

He manages a half smile. “Thanks,” he offers quietly.

From the newsstand, he’s off to the corner of Murray and Church, to stop at Englehart’s, which is probably the best nomaj-run bakery in the whole of Manhattan.

Having secured the very last sesame seed bagel, he’s on his way out when he runs into two fellow agents. Familiar faces—familiar as anyone is these days, anyway.

“Hey Steve,” Agent Cory McBryde gives him a little wave as they pass.

He nods courteously in their direction, and they smile back. “Avery. McBryde. Good to see you.”

He’s halfway through the door as his enhanced hearing catches a scrap of their conversation.

“Who is he again?” asks Agent Avery, newest auror in the Theft of Magical Property department. “Steve who?”

Steve doesn’t really blame her for not remembering him; she’s fresh out of academy training and has met a lot of new people in the past few weeks. And it’s not as though he’s been particularly social as of late, either. Not to mention, not everyone has his unusually precise memory—half the soldiers in his old unit didn’t refer to him as the ‘walking pensieve’ for nothing.

“Rogers,” McBryde reminds her quietly.

“What?” she asks. “Didn’t catch that.”

McBryde clears his throat and repeats himself. “I said—”

* * *

_“—Rogers. Come in. Have a seat.”_

_Steve ducks out of the wind and snow, the general’s tent providing a temporary relief from the Belgian winter weather._

_“The Russians have a new ally,” General Renworth of the Third Magical army announces without preamble, pointing to a spot on the map laid out before him. “We don’t know who it is, but they’re powerful, and they’re hiding something. We’ve detected a whole field of enchantments, radiating from here—southeast of Dresden.”_

_Steve squints at the area before glancing back at the General. “Isn’t that near where Bucky’s on recon?”_

_Steve thought that that nomaj general, Patton, was being paranoid about the Russians’ intentions, but it looks like his fears might have been well-founded—in this one instance, at least._

_“Couldn’t you have him report back, get some additional intel?”_

_Renworth sighs, and suddenly Steve thinks he knows why the General looked so dour when Steve entered the tent; a sinking feeling pulls at his guts._

_“I had the same thought about a week ago,” Renworth confirms. “Haven’t heard from Barnes since.”_

_“Sir,” Steve grits out. “When do I leave?”_

* * *

“Steve! Hey, wait up!”

The noise echoing in the bustling MACUSA foyer—the sound of hundreds of witches and wizards making their way to the building’s dozens of levels to begin their day—is considerable, but the shout from behind Steve cuts through it, and through Steve’s memories as well. He turns, and spies Agent Sam Wilson pushing through the crowd toward him. Steve pauses so his partner can catch up.

Steve is friendly with everyone, but he hasn’t made a lot of friends since he... came back. Sam is probably his best one.

Sam is doing a credible job not limping; Steve, as usual, doesn’t mention it, and hopes Sam is actually recovering, not just trying to hide his knee injury, which he received about a month ago in the line of duty, apprehending a wizard who had been enchanting billboards in Times Square to hypnotize nomaj tourists. The curse had been a particularly nasty one, leeching poison into the tendon’s of Sam’s left knee, and the weekly application of the countercharm was proving slow in reversing the spell’s effects.

Both Steve and Steve are on “special” assignments right now—“special” being a euphemism for all paperwork, nothing in the field. Sam’s off active duty until he heals, and the same goes for Steve until he… well, until he gets used to this century, he supposes. He’s not sure how his superiors are going to determine that exactly.

Instead of Sam’s gait, Steve focuses on the flecks of stubble on his friend’s jaw, and the dark rings beneath his eyes.

“You alright?” he asks. They approach one of the two main elevators in the center of the MACUSA ground floor, where intricately designed metal supports soar hundreds of feet upward, eventually disappearing into an illusion of the night sky.

Sam sighs, scraping a hand over his face. “Woke up late today, haven’t even had breakfast.”

Wordlessly, Steve thrusts his bagel bag at Sam's chest. 

Sam blinks.“Englehart’s?” he asks.

Steve nods.

“Everything?”

“Sesame seed.”

Sam only hesitates a moment before tearing into the bag.

"I'll get you back, man," he promises around a mouthful of bagel, and Steve smiles. At least Sam has learned he shouldn't put up a fight regarding this topic; no one goes hungry on Steve's watch.

An elevator car comes swooping down, and its doors part to reveal a massive bulldog with a sort of... tuning fork protruding from its forehead.

It stares at them, unmoving and unimpressed.

"...Going up?" Sam asks it eventually.

It sighs at them. Steve and Sam look at one another, and they board the elevator.

"Auror's Bureau," Sam says aloud, triggering the AE—auto-enchantment. 

Elevators used to have goblin attendants, Steve remembers as they zoom past floor after floor in silence—well, silence except for the sound of Sam chewing.

They stop first at the twenty-seventh floor, where the head office for Magical Transit Authority is located, and the dog exits.

"Do you think that thing works here," Sam asks as the doors close again, "Or it just got loose?"

" _Sam_ ," Steve chides him.

"You were thinking it too," Sam shrugs, popping the last bite of bagel into his mouth.

“Speaking of animal companions,” Steve glances at Sam’s conspicuously empty shoulder, “where’s Redwing?”

Almost all young witches and wizards have magical pets growing up, but most grow out of the habit of taking the creatures everywhere they go when they finish school. They really aren't the same thing as what a nomaj would call a 'familiar'—an animal that helps with spells, or somehow does your bidding.

Except... Sam seems to have _exactly_ that rapport with the falcon that nearly always accompanies him. Sam raised Redwing from an abandoned egg, and ever since then, one always seems to know what the other is thinking or feeling; they communicate without Sam having to say a word. The bird has been so helpful with Sam's case work, in fact, that Director Stoner actually made him an official part of the force.

“Out flying laps around the building. It’s not like he can help us where we’re going today, anyway.”

Steve slows for a few paces, caught off guard. They’re actually heading out? He’s not going to be stuck behind a desk for yet another day?

There _has_ to be a catch.

“Where are we going?”

Sam smirks as he opens the door to the meeting room where their morning briefing starts in five minutes.

"You're not gonna like it."

* * *

_“I’m not gonna like it, am I?” Steve sighs, crouching behind Bucky. “When you tell me how you got into this mess?”_

_“Meeemmve?” Bucky intones through the gag in his mouth, clearly surprised. He looks tired and his face is more gaunt than it was the last time Steve saw him, over a month ago. Steve wonders how long he’s been here, if he’s been kept bound this entire time… and who exactly would pick a cave system like this as their base of operations._

_It had taken nearly a week, but Steve tracked the footprints and spell traces from Bucky’s last known whereabouts. He nearly lost the trail a few times, but it ultimately led him to a tunnel near a massive lake._

_Without hesitating, Steve descended into the dark, damp stone passageway. For a moment he regretted not bringing an owl with him to send his location back to headquarters, but there was no time to dwell on it now._

_He made his way through stunning halls and galleries of stalactites and stalagmites of various colorful strata for over an hour. As he moved further in and down the winding tunnels, he began to lose the light, getting further and further from the surface._

_Persevering, he finally arrived in his current location: a chamber that—if his sense of direction is to be trusted after all the twists and turns—seems to be directly beneath the lake._

_“MYYYHUHH!” Bucky continues trying to talk through the fabric, quietly but forcefully, eyes wide, darting back and forth._

_In response to his partner’s dismay, Steve looks up. Nothing is stirring in the vast expanse of this cavern as far as he can see—which, in the absolute darkness surrounding them, is not terribly far, even with his enhanced vision._

_It’s true, he’s surprised to find Bucky seemingly alone and unguarded. There’s probably more going on than is immediately apparent—hell, this may even be a trap—but it doesn’t mean he can’t take advantage of the momentary lull; he knows better than to look a gift thestral in the mouth._

_He extends his right arm, and his bracer begins to emit a soft glow._

_The Vambraces of Erskinus: one of the most powerful magical artifacts Steve had ever encountered. They had gotten him out of more scrapes than he could count._

_When Steve was younger, he’d been incredibly frail, in both his physical form and his magical abilities. The other kids teased him that he might be a fizzer—a non-magical child born to wizarding parents. He had trouble wielding the eight inch sycamore wand he was given, a worn-looking hand-me-down. It seemed for all the world like he would be mediocre wizard for the rest of his life._

_It wasn’t until he applied—and had been rejected, several times—as a battlecaster that he found out why his power seemed so volatile._

_It wasn’t until he was examined by Professor Reinstein, a experimental sorcerer for the Magical Army of the United States, that someone could explain his special gift._

_Steve was inherently inclined to wandless magic—an incredibly powerful form of spellcraft, but one which was also particularly difficult to control._

_His body simply wasn’t strong enough to handle it._

_Reinstein recommended him for a new study, the first of its kind in mediwizardry. It was called Project Solstice: a complex series of spells performed by some of the most talented healers of the day. They made Steve healthier, stronger, faster—and the changes in his magic were both immediate and extraordinary._

_He fought almost like a nomaj—but every strike, jump, and kick was imbued with astounding power that was only limited by his concentration. His magic was entirely physical and wholly unique—he could compound its effects with incantations, but he didn’t need to. He could scale sheer cliffsides, swim to impossible depths. Once, he single-handedly defeated a giant by throwing a nomaj automobile at it._

_After only a few missions, Steve was presented with the Vambraces of Erskinus, delivered directly from the Department of Mysteries in London. No wizard had been able to wield them in over a hundred years._

_The blue bands molded to his forearms as if they had been made for him. They provided an impeccable defense to his impressive offensive abilities, and he could use them to cast spells as effectively as any wizard could with a wand. There was, however, one spell he found most useful._

_“_ Protego fortis _,” Steve whispers, and sparkling concentric rings of blue-white light bloom from the bracer, forming a circular shield affixed to his arm._

_“Muuff, Meeev, muh. Myyyhuuuh,” Bucky shakes his head, obviously alarmed._

_“Stop wriggling,” Steve orders him before slamming the spellshield down with surgical precision: once near the back of Bucky’s head, and then twice again near his wrists and ankles._

_Bucky’s gag and bonds disintegrate into a flurry of golden sparks, the shield casting a more powerful version of an_ emancipare _spell on him._

_“How did this happen?”_

_Bucky scrambles up from his side, stumbling backward against the cave wall._

_“Hy-hydra,” he breathes, voice uncharacteristically laden with terror._

_That answer throws Steve for a loop. “What?”_

_Hydra is the name of one of the more powerful magical sub-factions of the Reich. But it’s already been defeated, along with Grindelwald himself. The fighting in Europe is all but over. “That’s impossible—”_

_“Put out your shield—_ nox _it, Steve—we need to go, and we can’t apparate—”_

_“Bucky, what? What is it?”_

_“STEVE!” Bucky’s gaze shifts up over Steve’s shoulder, and suddenly he points at something behind Steve in the blackness of the cavern._

_Steve turns to see two yellow points emerge from the darkness. A voice begins speaking to them, its clipped vowels and trilled Rs resonating in the air around them._

_“I apologize for the confusion; both you and your friend are right, in your way. Those imbecilic Germans took many things that were not rightfully theirs, including the name of their organization...”_

_Several more pairs of glowing yellow dots appear all around them in the endless dark, accompanied by a stomping sound._

_“...A_ true _hydra isn’t something you salute…” the voice continues._

 _Steve focuses, casting a_ lumos maxima _charm through his braces. His shield glows brighter, throwing a wider circle of light into the cave._

_A massive lizard-like creature with eight heads—each arcing down from a long scaly neck and bearing a crown of protruding horns—is staring at Steve with all sixteen of its eyes. One of its cruel mouths opens in a snarl. Steve steps in front of a still-dazed Bucky, shielding them both._

_Near the hydra’s left flank, there’s a faint clanking sound, and a man in severe pewter-colored armor and a green cloak steps into the light, speaking to them again._

_“...You see...you won’t live that long.”_

 

* * *

 

"I know you've heard the rumors, so I'm just going to address this now: there _have_ been explosions—first in Brooklyn, and now Queens. This is the latest, and the worst."

Rick Stoner, head of the Federal Auror’s Bureau, flicks his wrist, and from his wand springs forth a 3D representation of the crime scene in the front of meeting room. Several gasps are heard from the crowd of assembled aurors at the all-staff.

It's almost unrecognizable as a building at first; there's hardly anything left of the structure. Most of the image is taken up by a crater, a wound in the surface of the earth. Part of a wall remains at the far edge of the visualization, and as Stoner adjusts the image, zooming out, bricks, rebar, and other debris can be seen.

But unlike a nomaj bombsite, the scorch marks near the center of the blast are white in color—possibly even silver. If you didn't know what you were looking at, and didn't realize it was an artifact of such horrible violence, it might be actually be a pretty sight.

Steve feels his mind drift back into his past yet again—but not the war this time. There were magibombs used by both sides in the fighting, of course, but they were nothing like this.

No, the image reminds him of something much older. Most people remembered the incident as the Great Obliviation of 1926, or possibly as the ordeal with Newt Scamander, who went on to become something of a celebrity in magizoology.

But what began that particular incident wasn't a beast at all, but a boy: the victim of an Obscurial. The last recorded one on American soil, for that matter.

There aren't many surviving photos of the damage it—or perhaps rather, _he_ , meaning the young wizard—caused, but Steve remembers. After all, he was there. He might, he considers, be the last person alive who was. He was all of seven years old at the time, but that kind of destruction remains vivid in one’s memory.

The obscurial caused damage on a massive scale, too, also without the tell-tale black smoke and dark scorches of a nomaj bomb.

It couldn’t be… Could it?

Stoner flicks his wand again and turns the entire image, and now visible in the foreground is a sign: LAYTON PREPARATORY ACADEMY.

"The school was abandoned by nomajs in '78, but it was the home of summer wizarding camps and community programs. We think it was empty at the time of the explosion—no one was found dead or injured... but our Forensic Conjurers have advised us that the detonation may have been so severe that someone in the immediate spell radius could have been completely disintegrated."

Steve feels his fists clench. A school, where young wizards still attended class in the summer. Could it be happening again? That kind of oppression? In this era? For all that he's not fond of being in the future, Steve had come think of modern nomajs as more tolerant—and that wizards had become better about finding and helping their own kind. Maybe he was mistaken.

"...we're going not to go back to the old, bad days of having to obliviate anyone," Stoner continues, "so watch yourselves on this. Reconstruction charms have already been cast on the site, so we'll be working from wand scans.”

Steve tries to keep his face neutral at that, as much as he wants to sneer. Wand scanners could be placed on the end of any standard issue wand and capture the scene before them. It was useful enough, true, Steve could admit that. But it gave way to this exact situation more often than not: aurors prematurely (in Steve’s opinion) destroying the state of a crime scene. Sure, hiding from nomajs was important, but a representation of evidence was never as good as the real thing.

Perhaps, Steve considers, his hostility is more related to wands than the scanners, though—he’s still bitter about losing his bracers. The alder wand he’s been assigned works better than the one he’d had growing up, but it would never be the same— _he_ would never be the same, for that matter.

“Agent Ayala will be following up with you individually with leads. _Everyone's_ on this one until we figure it out, and get the bastard behind bars."

Stoner lets his wand fall to his side, and the image dissipates. "Dismissed."

While the rest of the team slowly files out of the room, whispering to one another about what they've just seen, Steve is out of his seat and across the room before Sam—or anyone else—can get a word in edgewise.

He stops just inches short of Stoner, demanding the director’s attention. “Sir.”

“Rogers,” Stoner acknowledges him, not looking up from from a stack of photographs of the blast site—eerily still for wizard photos.

“I need to talk to you about the explosion,” Steve explains as Sam appears at his side, looking annoyed that Steve took off without him.

“Is there any chance there could be an Obscurial behind this?”

Stoner’s head shoots up at that, alarm writ large on his face.

Sam’s brow furrows. “A what?”

“A dark parasite that grows in a young witch or wizard when they are forced to suppress their powers,” Steve explains. “They can become extremely dangerous. Grindelwald—”

“—has been dead for nineteen years, and out of power for seventy-two,” Stoner reminds him with severity in his tone. “I know you’re still adjusting, Agent Rogers, but these are different times.”

“Sir,” Steve tries again, unwilling to back down. “Let me visit the blast site. Maybe I could pick up some traces that were left after the repair charms—”

Sam coughs beside him, and Stoner raises an eyebrow. Steve looks back and forth between them, confused.

“You’re not on this assignment,” Stoner tells him matter-of-factly.

Steve’s mouth hangs slightly open in astonishment. “I’m… sorry, sir? You said _everyone_ —”

“Everyone on active field duty. Besides,” Stoner shuffles the photos into a neat stack. “I already gave your partner your assignment earlier; you really should have talked to him first.”

Stoner pivots and walks away without another word, leaving Steve stock still and fuming.

Could this day possibly get worse?

“I don’t agree with Stoner much,” Sam says, watching their superior walk away, “But I have his back on that. You should have talked to me.” He puts a hand on a Steve’s shoulder, and Steve turns.

“You said we were back in the field today,” he says, voice sounding thin and low, brittle with disappointment.

“I implied we were leaving the _building_ ,” Sam responds defensively, reaching inside his coat to access his wand pocket. “Not the same thing. Also, I said you were gonna hate it, remember?”

“What _are_ we doing, then?”

Sam points his wand at himself, and whispers a transfiguration incantation. A wave of light ripples over his brown trench coat, rumpled blue button down and khakis, transforming them into a smart grey business suit and clean, pressed white shirt with a black tie.

Holding out his hand to Steve, he directs his wand to his empty palm, and in another flash, two business cards appear there. He hands one to Steve, who reads what’s printed on it:

_**ROGER STEVENS** _

_CONTRACT SPECIALIST_

_United States Department of Defense | Defense Acquisition System_

Sam points his wand at Steve next, while Steve’s mind races. It takes him several seconds to process the text in front of him.

That’s a _nomaj_ organization. They’re posing as nomajs?

Light shimmers over Steve as well, dressing Steve in a smart two-piece suit, but he barely notices the change. He can’t tear his eyes away from the business card until Sam begins speaking again.

“Welcome to undercover, Stevie,” Sam smiles smugly, conjuring a pair of sunglasses to appear on his face. “Welcome to W.A.N.D.D.”

* * *

_Steve always knew there was a chance he would sacrifice his life in the line of duty. He even knew there was a chance it would be fighting Hydra._

_He never dreamed it would happen fighting a real living_ breathing _hydra, though._

_By himself, Steve is outmatched. The hydra’s necks give it an incredible reach in nearly every direction; the only place out of range of one of its many sets of teeth is its rear, but that placement puts Steve in danger of the sweep of its tail. His shield protects him from the most severe blows, but he’s been entirely on the defensive so far._

_Lacking a ranged attack of the power required to take the monster down, Steve dives in close, springing aboard the creature’s shoulders. Brandishing the shield, he shoots a binding charm at three of its heads; the captured heads shriek in rage as they are ensnared for precious few moments._

_Using the respite from flank-side attacks, Steve launches himself at the base of the center neck, and, channeling a slicing spell into the shield with every ounce of concentration he can muster, drives it in between two vertebrae._

_The curve of the shield forms a knifelike edge, and the skin of the creature splits on impact. Oily purple blood spurts from the gash._

_Before Steve can celebrate, before he can even move away from the wound, a splash of blood shoots up at him—and penetrates through his spellshield._

_An intense burning sensation shoots up his left upper arm and he grunts in pain._

_This thing’s blood is_ acidic _._

_A dark laugh resounds in the cavern, and out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees the armored man apparate to a raised rocky precipice behind him, just out of reach of the fight, as if watching the festivities. He has Bucky held at his side in a choke hold, unarmed and possibly even subdued with with magic._

_“I see you’ve discovered that the hydra is fortified both from within and without,” the man announces, exuding calm and self-satisfaction. “A trait Doom presumes to share with them.”_

Doom? _thinks Steve. The guy calls himself Doom?_

_The hydra’s entrapped heads break free from the Incarcerous spell; hot breath and a snap of jaws breaks Steve’s train of thought. He dodges the bite attacks and leaps back down to the ground._

_All things considered, ‘Doom’ is not an inappropriate moniker for his foe._

_Another sting of pain shoots up his burned bicep, and he grits his teeth._

_Fighting this thing head-on is going to get them killed. He needs try something different, something… more._

_He’d been working on spells with a wide casting area, using the vambraces to amplify their effect. He hasn’t tried any of them in combat yet, has no idea if it would be enough to envelope an entire Hydra, but he has to try._

_Taking a deep breath, Steve closes his eyes for a moment and lets the shielding spell fall away, and steps just within range of the Hydra’s longest neck._

_“Steve!” Bucky screams. “Steve, what are you doing?!”_

_The hydra cranes a head toward Steve, jaws open wide._

_Steve raises his arm above his head, and as he opens his mouth to pronounce the incantation, Doom stops laughing, and extends his wand arm._

_"DURO TOTALIS!" Steve calls out._

_"REFLECTIO!" shouts Doom._

_A silver-gray burst of light explodes from Steve's bracer, only to be intercepted by a neon yellow bolt from Doom's wand._

_Steve's hardening spell shatters into a thousand shards of light, reflecting in every direction instead of only at the Hydra._

_Reflexively, Steve puts his arms up, and flickers of the spell collide with his bracers. He is knocked back by the impact, smacking against the cave wall. His arms fall to his side, suddenly weighted down. The Vambraces of Erskinus have been turned to solid stone. What’s worse, Steve can barely move. He’s a physical spellcaster—there’s no way for him to produce even a cantrip this way._

_He's helpless._

_Spell fragments ricochet around the cave like mad, showing no signs of stopping. Doom raises his wand to perform a counter curse, but is struck by the charm before he can get a word out. His armor, his cloak, and possibly the man inside are all turned to stone._

_"Bucky!" Steve screams, watching as his friend tries to wriggle free of the Doom’s now immoveable grip._

_"STEVE," Bucky shouts back, "STE—"_

_A spell fragment strikes Bucky, and Steve watches, powerless, as Bucky is frozen mid-shout, skin going gray, lifeless._

_Two of the hydra's heads have been struck, and as the enchantment races up its necks, it twists away violently. The heads fall cleanly off its body and it screams, rearing up in agony._

_Its remaining heads strike the cave's ceiling with a sickening crack, and water begins to pour into the cave._

_The lake, of course._

_The last ricocheting bits of spell shrapnel find their way to the hydra, and eventually, Steve as well._

_The feeling leaves his toes first, then his legs, the stone spell creeping up his body. He watches the hydra stop writhing, becoming a massive, hideous statue, and Steve breathes one last sigh, heavy with both grief and relief. He won't live to see the end of the war, but at least Doom won't be bringing about another one._

_His vision goes gray, and then he doesn't see anything at all._

__

* * *

Rhodes Industries is housed in a massive, modern nomaj skyscraper, entirely made of glass, as though someone had hit it with a _Perlucidulo_ charm. It zigzags skyward, the frame twisting at odd angles that, rationally, at seem like they shouldn’t fit together correctly, but somehow they meet with astonishing grace; its architecture is both geometric and organic at the same time.

The glass theme continues in the lobby; the only structures in the building that are not transparent are fixtures of glistening chrome, reflecting the late morning light.

It should all be beautiful. It _is_ beautiful, in fact, even if Steve can’t appreciate it at the moment.

He and Sam approach the massive, arching reception desk in the lobby, and they peer over the counter to see a middle-aged woman with dark hair, wearing cat-eye glasses. She has something of the appearance of a librarian—wise, sharp, and perhaps warm as well.

“Good morning, Mrs…” Sam’s eyes track across or desktop, spotting her name plate. “Arbogast. We’re from the—”

“Dee-Oh-Dee,” she finishes for him with a smile. “Mister Samuels and Mister Stevens. I’ll let Mister Rhodes know you’ve arrived. If I could just see some ID, I’ll get your access cards and lanyards ready.”

ID. Right. That rectangle of nomaj plastic with the stationary photo of himself printed on it to prove who he is. (As if that could stop someone who was transfigured to look like you.)

He sighs and pulls out the card.

This is an important job, he attempts to convince himself. It _really_ is.

He read all about how important it was as soon as he was revived, in fact. He can practically still see passages from _Modern Magical Warfare_ in his head:

_The magical world has always been hidden from non-magical people out of fear of widespread panic and persecution._

_The Second World War, though, brought the two groups together in the most permanent, organized fashion in either group’s entire history._

_Neither side could have defeated Hitler and Grindelwald’s combined forces on their own. The Allies’ force, utilizing the strengths of both wizards and nomajs alike, was what ultimately made their strategy successful._

_Even though the International Statute of Secrecy remained in place, immediately following the end of the War, leaders of both communities—fearing a reprisal of the type of global events they had just experienced—created a new organization specifically to keep that special collaboration alive._

_W.A.N.D.D.—the Worldwide Auror-Nomaj Defense Division— is a program where the brightest and best nomaj companies are selected to work in tandem with the finest magical talents the world over—after a lengthy, rigorous vetting process, of course. For the safety of the wizarding world at large, only the most trustworthy nomaj companies are inducted into W.A.N.D.D._

That’s why Steve’s here, pretending to be someone else: Rhodes Industries is a rising star in the nomaj military technology sector. Their equipment is so advanced, the briefing said, it seems to border on the magical already; it seems likely they could produce wand scanners and other magi-technological devices for the Auror’s Bureau and other divisions.

This is day one of the review. According to the procedures Steve had reviewed during the car ride over, it could take _months_ to complete the interview process.

“Here you go, gentlemen,” Mrs. Arbogast says at last, handing Steve and Sam two more squares of flat plastic—nomajs really, really like their plastic—on loops of fabric cord, like the ugliest amulets Steve has ever seen. Reluctantly, he slips his over his head.

“Floor 178. Mister Rhodes is waiting for you.”

__

* * *

_Someone is yelling, but it doesn't sound like Bucky or Doom. There's no stomping, no sound of a hydra, but if_ Steve's _alive, it’s possible that thing is alive, too._

_When Steve reopens his eyes, he finds himself staring at two enormous brown ones, in a pale, freckled face, framed with a brown bob haircut._

_"Nadia!" the man’s voice yells again. "Get away from there, that's important research those people are doing and—OH!"_

_Steve blinks. He's lying on the ground—no, the floor—he's in a building of some kind, if the ceiling he’s looking up at is any indication, and a little girl, no more than ten years old, is staring down at him, her mouth hanging open._

_"He's... alive, daddy!" she squeals in an Eastern European accent._

_She’s scooped up in someone’s arms, presumably her father’s. Steve sits up—too quickly; the room spins._

_Where is he?_

_The room is expansive and well-lit, containing several large wooden work tables. A few gloved wizards stand at each, metallic wands in hand, small trays containing a variety of objects in front of them. The items look like… pieces of stone._

_The cave-in…The cave-in must’ve shattered the hydra. Maybe shattered everything._

_Everything but him, apparently._

_“Are you…? You can’t be,” the man holding his daughter in his arms shakes his head in disbelief. The man is blonde, tall, and wearing a lab coat—a research wizard, maybe. He’s American, or doing a very convincing American accent, at least._

_The other wizards begin to leave their workstations to see what the fuss is about; Steve is effectively surrounded. He instinctively raises his left arm to brandish his bracer and cast a shield charm, but there’s nothing around his wrists. He’s unarmed. Whatever the situation, he’s at the mercy of his captors._

_He stands at attention, arms at his sides. “Captain Steven Rogers. Cryptocode Four-Two-Six-Ascendio-Four-Nine-Kneazle-Three,” he states plainly, showing no emotion._

_“You’re… You’re…” The blond man turns to one of the other research wizards near him. “Somebody… somebody get President Gyrich on their Tee-Dub, ASAP. We… we just found...” he shakes his head. “A battlecaster from World War II—someone called Captain Rogers, apparently.”_

_He turns his focus back to Steve, looking… embarrassed. “I apologize, Captain. To be honest, we… thought you were a statue. ‘The Hydra Defeats the Allies’ is one of the most famous examples of Third Reich monumental propaganda we’ve ever…” the man shakes his head again, still stunned. “You’re not a monument, though, I suppose. My daughter Nadia seems to have upended three years of excavation work with a beginner’s de-hardening charm.”_

_Nadia grins proudly._

_Steve’s gaze drifts down to the area immediately around and in front of him. That… can’t be true._

_More stone pieces of varying sizes are arranged on the ground inside taped markings with writing on them: notes and numbers indicating location, as if recreating the “statue’s” original structure._

_Steve pivots, scanning the debris frantically, looking for Bucky, but there’s nothing remotely human-looking in the stone pieces. One of the hydra’s necks is nearly reassembled._

_How can Steve trust these people? What if they’re trying to use the hydra as a weapon?_

_“Cryptocode Four-Two-Six-Ascendio-Four-Nine-Kneazle-Three,” Steve repeats, a touch more frantic this time. “Countersign?”_

_“I… don’t know,” the blonde man admits. “You’re in New York, Captain Rogers, at the Center for the Preservation of Historical Magical Artifacts. The war is over.”_

_...Historical? How long has he been cursed for?_

_“If you’re with the Allies, you’ll know the Countersign,” Steve demands._

_“Countersign: Bowtruckle-One-Seven-Seven-Six,” a man’s voice answers._

_One of the research witches pushes her way to the front of the crowd, holding a small rectangle of shimmering glass, like a mirror. As the woman turns her hand, curving the glass in Steve’s direction, he sees a man, seated at a desk with an American flag behind him, come into a view._

_That’s a tiny Two-Way Magical Mirror, Steve realizes. Those are extraordinarily rare, powerful magical devices used for communicating instantly across long distances. The U.S. Army only had one available for use on the European front during the entirety of the war; they were nearly impossible to create._

_But this one has a little logo etched in the lower corner, and way the woman is holding it—casually, like she’s used to it, like it belongs to her—makes Steve think maybe they’re commonplace now._

_“Captain,” the man in the mirror—the ‘tee dub’, for Two Way, Steve supposes—addresses him._

_“I’m Henry Peter Gyrich, President of MACUSA. Everything Doctor Pym said is true. I don’t know how to tell you this… but it’s the year 2016. You’ve been gone for over seventy years.”_

_“Sir.” Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it. He drops his head, chin falling nearly to his chest._

_At his feet, Steve spots a “statue” fragment he hadn’t seem before: the remnants of an arm. The stone sleeve looks like it might have been part of a uniform jacket._

_The arm is little smaller than an adult’s would be. A boy’s, maybe._

Bucky _._

_“I know this must be quite a shock,” says Gyrich sympathetically._

_“You have no idea,” Steve breathes, eyes fixed on the last remnant of his young friend. “I’m…” He forces himself to look up, speaking to both the Gyrich and the scientists present. “I’m in the 21st century.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And I’m…” Steve trails off, voice gone soft._

_“Alive, yes,” Doctor Pym assures him brightly. Nadia smiles again._

Alone _, Steve thinks._ I’m alone _._

* * *

 

“...and not only was Rhodes International named a Fast500 Tech Innovator last year, but also—and maybe more importantly—it was selected as a SilverDoor 2016 ‘Best Place To Work’ award recipient. We’re incredibly proud that people love working here—any, uh, comment on that, _Mister Stevens?_ ”

James Rhodes’ turns just in time to catch Steve attempting to stifle a yawn. The CEO smirks pointedly.

Steve is… more than a little chagrined.

James Rhodes seems like a really nice person. Steve isn’t on a first name basis with a lot of nomajs, but if Rhodes were a wizard, he seems like the sort of guy Steve could, to use a phrase, get a butterbeer with.

He’s tall, with close-cropped hair, sharp brown eyes and a warm smile. His suit coat is unbuttoned, a hint of a seemingly laid back personality making itself known. Leaning against the front of his desk, he looks absolutely at home in his magnificent, airy office, its floor to ceiling windows continuing the transparency motif Steve noticed in the lobby, giving them all a beautiful view thousands of feet above the teeming metropolis below.

“It _sounds_ ,” Sam jumps him, throwing a smile to Rhodes and a scowl to Steve, “like an amazing company.”

“Absolutely, Mister Rhodes,” Steve chimes in, trying to look engaged.

“I told you, it’s Rhodey,” Rhodes insists. “Look…”

From his jacket, he pulls out a little grey electronic device with a glowing screen, not unlike the one the one the Bureau equipped him and Sam with for this assignment, only Rhodes’ is smaller and sleeker. He thumbs it a few times and pockets it again.

“I can tell you’re both, ah, men of action. You want to get moving, go hands on... I understand that impulse,” Rhodes paces toward them, sympathizing. “Maybe a personalised tour of a couple of our divisions would be more your speed? It just so happens that two of our Lead Engineers are available for the next hour, and they’d be happy to show you around. There’s Reed Richards, who can take one of you down to Biology—”

“Ooh, DIBS,” Sam calls out excitedly—probably too excitedly—even as Steve is raising his hand.

Damn, Steve had been hoping to go on the biology tour. It would probably be all… oh, what are they called? Microorganisms? But at least it was something _alive_.

Rhodes laughs. “Okay, Mister Samuels, I guess that’s you, then. Reed’ll be here shortly. And for the robotics tour, Mister Stevens—”

“—you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. So, I’m second choice, huh?” a voice asks playfully from behind Steve, and Steve turns to see whom he’s offended now.

He barely stops himself before he gasps.

_By Merlin’s great grey beard._

Leaning in the doorway to Rhodes’ office, grinning, casual as anything, is the most beautiful man Steve has ever seen.

Everything about him is… _perfect_. Crisp. Precise. The lines of his merlot-hued button down shirt and the pleats in his trousers;the part in his raven hair; the lines of jaw. Even his eyes—dark blue, with bright little teal flecks—dazzle him, recalling the sparks of light emitted from a wand as it casts some intricate charm.

Steve has never met a roboticist before, but suddenly he can’t help but feel that this is exactly what one should look like, that this man is the platonic ideal of someone inventing the future.

(Though, if he is honest, Steve’s feelings are somewhat less, ah, platonic. So to speak.)

The man coughs and raises his hand a little higher; Steve suddenly realises he’s been staring, unmoving and silent, while the man has been waiting with his hand out in greeting.

 _You’re an auror, and an army captain_ , Steve attempts to convince himself as he reaches out to take the engineer’s hand. _You can do this._

(His hand is warm. Not _too_ warm, of course. Just—not surprisingly— _perfect_.)

“Hi,” he says softly, his gaze locked on Steve’s face. “Tony Cerrera. Lead Engineer, Robotics and Artificial Intelligence.”

“Steve,” Steve blurts out too quickly, forgetting his false name. He hangs on the single syllable, trying to recover. “...ens. Roger Stevens. But. Roger is fine.”

Steve could kick himself. _Focus less on getting a date, and more on not blowing your already-ridiculous cover_.

“Well, _Stevens-Roger-Stevens-Roger-is-fine_ ,” Tony says, his tone impish, “I can tell you’re just _dying_ to see the robotics lab.”

Before Steve can beg Tony’s forgiveness, Tony continues: “I get the sense it’s not your area of expertise, but we’re pretty proud of it. Or, _I’m_ pretty proud of it, anyway. C’mon,” he smiles even wider and tips his head toward the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. “We’re gonna have _way_ more fun than your pal and Richards.”

Steve feels himself beginning to grin back. “Lead on.”

* * *

“So, you seemed a little distracted up there,” Tony comments as the elevator whisks them downward. “Tired?”

Steve shuffles slightly. He hasn’t gotten the best sleep since his, uh, de-statue-fication, that’s true. “A bit.”

“Rough night last night?” Tony elbows him good-naturedly. “Or good one? It’s okay, I’ve been there, trust me. But you look like you could use a cup of coffee.”

“I… don’t drink coffee,” Steve explains, confused where this is going.

“Are you a tea guy?” Tony nods thoughtfully. “My gro—uh, _uncle_ was a tea guy. I can work with that.”

Two right turns and a left brings them to a locked door with a security panel beside it.

“Hey, kids, it’s me! Open up,” Tony says, seemingly at the door. 

There’s a faint… beeping sound inside. The light on the security panel turns green, and… the door...begins to open of its own accord?

Tony gestures to the room. “After you.”

Steve cautiously steps into the room. There’s a desk, scattered with papers, hand tools, and a few models cars and other personal knick-knacks.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be looking at, until behind the divider attached to the far edge of the desk, a long, snake-like neck rises up and into view.

Steve jumps back, letting out a little gasp.

It’s been seventy years since Steve fought the hydra, but it only feels like six months to him.

The thing behind the desk gives a squeak of its own and pulls back as well, mirroring Steve’s behavior in its own way.

It’s… a robot.

At least, Steve _thinks_ that’s what it is. He’s never seen one before.

The “neck” is comprised of different metal pieces, articulated with joints in several places, and it moves fluidly, like a dragon’s, or a crane’s, or even perhaps another creature that Steve can’t quite place at the moment. At the end is a claw attachment, which is currently spinning, as well as opening and closing. It looks like it’s… gesturing?

It looks so _alive_.

It reminds him of the first time he saw his mom enchanting a broom to move on its own, doing the housework for her, and realized that not every family had the special abilities that his did.

It looks like…

Like _magic_.

“No need to be scared, dummy,” Tony comforts the robot, making a coaxing gesture. “Come on out. And bring the cup.”

The neck—or is it an arm?—bends down out of sight for a moment, and then pops back up holding a coffee mug in its claw. As it wheels around the desk toward them, what Steve had previously thought was a shelving unit comes to life as well, rolling out from under the desk. A shelf with a tea kettle on it slides forward, and the kettle begins to whistle.

The crane-necked robot places the mug on the shelf bot, and then picks up the kettle and proceeds to pour hot water into the mug. Steve just continues staring, mouth hanging slightly.

“Good!” Tony exclaims. “That’s a good dummy!”

Steve turns to Tony at that; that doesn’t make any sense.

“Oh,” Tony chuckles softly. “D-U-M-dash-E. It’s his name.” He points at the shelf bot. “And that’s Tug.”

Steve hears a chirp and feels something warm brushing against his hand; DUM-E is handing him the mug of tea.

“Those are… interesting names,” Steve comments, taking the mug. “Ah, thank you?” he offers the DUM-E, who actually coos. It’s incredibly sweet.

“Well,” Tony muses, nodding at the mug in Steve’s hands. “It _is_ one of the two hard problems.”

Steve regards the print on the side of the mug:

**THE TWO HARD CS PROBLEMS:**

  * **CACHE INVALIDATION**
  * **NAMING THINGS**
  * **OFF-BY-ONE ERRORS**



Steve… has no idea what any of that means, but Tony is smiling more than ever, so Steve smiles right back.

This is _incredible_. He never knew science could be so interesting, so… personal.

“So, you made these… bots?” Steve asks between sips of tea. “This is your lab?”

Tony laughs. “Uh, no. I mean, yes, I made them. But this is just my cubicle, where I take breaks. And these,” he gestures to the bots, “are just my hobbies.”

DUM-E makes a noise that descends in pitch, and spins its claw around.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay: _friends_.”

DUM-E makes a happy squeak of approval at this amendment, and Steve laughs.

“Anyway...” Tony approaches his desk, gaze coasting over the work surface until it lights on a stack of flat plastic circles. He grabs one off the top, and then returns to Steve, handing it to him.

“Mainly came back here for these,” he explains.

The circle has a beautiful red and gold geometric pattern etched into one side, and the other appears to be blank… until you move it, and it catches the light, which reveals text that just says ‘hi there.’

“Calling cards.” Tony tells Steve.

“It…” Steve looks at the shimmering text. “It doesn’t say anything about RI on here.”

“ _Personal_ ,” Tony clears his throat rather emphatically, “Ah, personal calling cards. With my personal information. In case you, uh, think of something you want to ask me. Off-hours. Or. Whenever.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“It…” Steve twists the plastic a few more times to see if anything else shows up on the card, but nothing else appears. “It doesn’t say anything about that, either.”

Tony smiles, and without warning, pushes into Steve’s personal space, his hand sliding under the lapel of Steve’s jacket. For a moment, Steve thinks Tony is about to kiss him—or something even _more_ forward. Steve imagines his eyes must be the size of quaffles.

Tony’s hand slides past Steve’s left pec—and his wand pocket— _good gryphons_ , that was close—and closes around Steve’s muggle phone, which he extracts from Steve’s jacket before taking a half-step back.

Steve is half-relieved and half-disappointed. (Maybe more than half of the latter, if he’s being honest with himself.)

Tony taps the plastic circle against the back of the phone, and it chirps and lights up, the screen proclaiming that a new contact, Tony Cererra, has been added.

“There you go. NFC,” Tony says simply, sing-songing, as if that should mean something to Steve. “Easy as 1-2-3.”

Steve just glances back at forth between the phone and Tony a few times, still stunned into silence.

It looks for a moment like Tony might be sporting a bit of color on his cheeks as well, but he pivots on his heel and heads out of the room before Steve can be sure.

“LAB TIME!” he calls out as he stalks out of the room. “PREPARE TO BE AMAZED!”

Steve half-jogs towards the door, trying to catch up, when he hears a squawk—a distinctly different sound than either of the bots made.

Steve whips back around to try and find the source of it, and out of the corner of his eye, thinks he sees a flash of iridescent greens and purples rush behind the cubicle divider. What on _earth_?

He takes a few steps towards the desk and peers over the plastic wall, but there’s nothing to be seen. Huh.

“C’MON, STEVENS,” Tony yells from down the hall, “TIME WAITS FOR NO GOVERNMENT LACKEY, EVEN A VERY PRETTY ONE!”

Steve blushes again, and rushes out of the room, hearing the door latch as he shuts it behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Bobbi Morse sighs into her styrofoam cup.

“Tell them already,” she admonishes Steve, who sits across from her at one of the enormous tables in MACUSA’s expansive commissary.

“Who?” Steve asks, trying to stifle a grin as he takes another sip of rose hip tea.

Bobbi rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Whoever this person you’re making moon-eyes over is, Rogers.”

Steve sets his cup down. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he tells her, affecting a fake calm, smile still not entirely banished from his face (dammit.) “Also, stop using your powers on me. ”

Bobbi sits up, defensive. “I might be a Legilaffex, but I don’t need to read your emotions for this. It’s on your face, for Merlin’s sake.” She leans forward, imploring. “Come on, Steve. I think you’ll feel better if you tell me, and it’s not like there’s anyone else around to hear.”

That’s… mostly true. It’s 4:45am; the commissary hasn’t even opened yet for the day. Bobbi is grimacing through a magically reheated cup of yesterday’s coffee, and Steve had to conjure the tea.

But Steve coughs and flicks his gaze upward.

Shifting from fully invisible to merely translucent, ex-auror Scott Lang fades into view.

"Hm, what?" the ghost asks, floating over the table. "Oh, hey, Rogers, Morse. Didn't even see you there."

"Uh-huh."

"Sure."

Scott drifts down to the table, maneuvering into the seat next to Bobbi, a spectral cup of coffee appearing before him with ethereal steam rising from it. He's still wearing his auror's robes, just as he had been back in 1972, when he was killed on the job by a stray curse.

"What were we talking about?" Scott asks companionably, clearly excited to be involved in the gossip of the living.

"Nothing," Steve says.

"Steve's love life," Bobbi corrects. "Or lack of it. He's pining over somebody, has been for weeks, and he won't do anything about it. Who is this person?"

Steve takes a deep breath.

For all that Steve tries to deny it, Bobbi is right. Steve is head-over-heels for Tony Cererra.

And it's not just a lusty crush, either. Tony is attractive, of course, but it's so much more than that. It's his energy, his ambition, his drive: it's infectious.

He talks a mile a minute about SLAM algorithms, ABSO data, and possible improvements in teach pendants, and Steve doesn't understand a word of it, but he's captivated nonetheless, finds himself getting lost in the rhythm of it. Computers and robots can do so much, Tony explained to him. They can cart supplies around hospitals, automate difficult tasks, harvest crops, keep people safe.

And when Tony sums it all up with what he wants to use all that tech for—to change the world, to save lives, to make things better for everyone—Steve has to squash the impulse to rush over to Tony and kiss him every time.

Maybe wizards could achieve some of those goals with magic. But Tony is creating all of it with his _mind_ , building it all with his hands. And he wants to give it to everyone, wizards and nomajs alike. Or, he would, Steve is sure, if he knew wizards existed.

Steve's been on the W.A.N.D.D. assignment for three weeks now, seeing Tony nearly every day, and they've settled into a comfortable routine. Tony's bots make him tea, Tony waxes philosophical about technology, Steve resolves to ask Tony out… and then the work day ends, and Steve goes home alone.

"He's... he's incredibly smart. And talented, and handsome, and..." Steve drums the side of his cup with his fingers, shifting in his seat. "He... makes me feel..."

"Feel what?" Bobbi asks. Scott, riveted, is leaning so far forward he's actually phasing part way through the table. 

"No, that's just it," Steve explains slowly, the thoughts untangling themselves as he says them out loud for the first time. "He makes me _feel_. Ever since I came back on the force, I've been... closed off. Shut down. About as emotional as..."

"A stone statue?" Scott offers. Bobbi scowls and swats at him. Her hand passes through him. "Sorry," Scott winces.

Despite his records being classified, Steve supposes everyone knows about that, huh?

He huffs a laugh. "For instance. But he's..." Steve wants to kick himself for hesitating. "He's a nomaj."

Bobbi's brows curve down in confusion. "So?" She ponders a moment, and then exclaims in realization. "Oh! That was illegal in your day, wasn't it? Fraternizing with non-magical people?"

“Yes,” Steve admits, “but that’s not it—I know it’s legal now.”

“Then what?”

“He’s… he’s my assignment. I mean, part of it. He works at Rhodes Industries, the place Sam and I are reviewing for W.A.N.D.D. status."

Bobbi blinks. "And again, I say... so?"

Steve gawps. He must be doing a fair impression of a fish. How can she be so cavalier?

"But—the project—Tony can't know—none of them can know about magic, about any of it, until the interview portion is over—"

Bobbi shrugs nonchalantly. "So don't bring magic up. You don't have to tell him your life story on the first date. 'I was in a lake in Germany for 70 years' is a little much for anyone to handle, wizard or not. Just... have dinner. See if you click."

Steve's hand, almost of its own accord, snakes down to his coat pocket where he keeps Tony's calling card. He's gotten into the habit of letting his fingers trace the curved edge when he's nervous, or bored, or thinking of Tony.

N-F-C stands for Near Field Communication, he's since learned, and more importantly, the nomaj device he was assigned is a mobile phone. It's a lot like a Two-Way Mirror, only with a battery and whole lot more tiny electronic bits inside, and together they let him get in touch with Tony at any time. He hasn't, of course, but just knowing that he could, just thinking about Tony picking up (why do nomajs say 'pick up'? You answer by pressing the button) and saying "hello?" all expectantly and sweetly sends a shiver up his spine.

"Oh," Steve says, barely suppressing said shiver, "we click. There's definite... clicking."

"God, you are so _smitten_! Has he shown... reciprocal interest?" Bobbi queries.

"He... gave me his personal phone number."

Bobbi's eyes go wide and she breaks out in an open-mouthed grin. "Get out! When?"

"Uhm," Steve's gaze is suddenly drawn down the tabletop, as if by rare-earth magnets, like the ones Tony showed him. "The first day I met him."

Bobbi throws her hands over her eyes and groans. "Oh my god. You’re _killing_ me, Rogers. You’re killing _Lang_ , and he’s already dead. No offense,” she says, address the last to the ghost.

 

"That is totally true," Scott concedes. "On both points."

"I..." Steve leans forward, elbows on the table, scraping his fingers through his hair. "I grew up in a wizarding family, Bobbi!" he gestures emphatically. "We were druidic Irish. Very observant. Mom's practice got her through some bad times with my Dad. Magic was her life, so it was mine, too. And then I was a battlecaster in the war. I don't... I don't know who I am without magic, and I don't know anything about technology. I'd be too terrified to lie, and I can't tell him the truth yet. I'll probably just... end up saying nothing at all. We'll be five minutes into the meal, and he'll realize what a huge mistake he’s made."

Steve lets his hands fall onto the table. Bobbi catches one and holds it gently.

"Sweetie... You have to let him decide that for himself. And I disagree about the technology thing. You seem to have learned a lot from Tony," she smirks. "Or at least, so Wilson tells me."

Oh, god, poor Sam. Steve has talked Sam’s ear off about everything Tony's told him. About the robots protecting nomajs from radiation poisoning in Japan; about farming machinery that’s powered by the energy of the sun; about computer programs that are smart enough to write other computer programs.

Sam threatened that if he heard Steve say the word "processor" or "transistor" one more time, he was going set Redwing on him. (Redwing seemed to screech and flap his refusal of this notion, but nonetheless, Steve dialled back his enthusiasm some, thinking it better to be safe than shredded.)

Sam went home early from Rhodes yesterday, saying he felt ill. Steve hasn't heard from him since; maybe he's still resting.

At least he's not here to hear this conversation and make fun of Steve for it.

"I've... picked up a few things. Maybe," Steve allows.

"Go. To. Dinner." Bobbi demands. "GO TO DINNER."

"Okay," Steve nods on a determined exhale, gripping the edge of the table, as if to steady himself. "Okay. Dinner."

Bobbi claps in elation. "Yessss! Okay. Where are you going to take him?"

Steve's face goes slack and his hands fall to his side.

Perfect. Now he has to pick a restaurant. Not just any restaurant: a great _date_ restaurant. Another nomaj thing he knows nothing about.

He just wants _so_ badly to show Tony his world—to thank Tony for all that he’s shown Steve, and give Tony something special in return.

He wants to take Tony flying past the Statue of Liberty on the back of a broom, Tony’s arms snug around Steve’s waist.

He wants to order them both a Starthistle Sling at The Bar With No Doors—and then, after pointing out the picture of the Emerald Warlock above the bar, _casually_ mentioning how he fought alongside him during Operation Dragon in 1944.

He wants to buy Tony a bouquet of night lilies—the ones that are the same dark blue as Tony’s eyes—at the Brooklyn Bizarre Bazaar, and then turn them into butterflies with a flick of his wand.

Instead, he has to pretend to be knowledgeable about pizza places he’s never been to and rock bands he’s never heard of.

"I have no idea," he says, trying not to panic. He looks at Bobbi, and then at Scott.

"Don't look at me," Scott protests, holding his palms up defensively. "I haven't eaten in forty-five years."

"I dated a nomaj a while back," Bobbi chimes in, "But he was only into dive bars."

“I don’t even know what those _are_ ,” Steve moans. “This would be so much easier if I could just use magic.”

“You can,” soothes Bobbi. “You _will_. Later. Right now, you just need to get through a couple of meals. So, ask him out today, the two of you go get a bite, hit it off, and then when you finish this assignment, you can go on the magical date of your dreams.”

“Who’s going on a date?” a new voice joins the conversation. Footsteps echo in the cafeteria, as a woman with bright green hair, wearing matching sunglasses and a black trenchrobe tied with a sash, crosses to their table.

Steve sits straight up, trying to look more like one of the Bureau’s top aurors, and less like the nervous, depressed heap he feels like at the moment.

“Agent Brand,” Steve nods.

“Hey, Ab,” Bobbi twists back in the seat, greeting her partner casually. “Steve is. Probably. If he gets the nerve up. You know any hot nomaj spots?”

“No,” Brand says grimly, frowning, as her hair turns a fiery red and orange color, clearly thinking of her own nomaj dating horror story. “But _definitely_ don’t let them take you out for rainbow bagels and unicorn frappuccinos. They don’t even have real unicorn in them.”

“I’ll… try to keep that in mind,” Steve promises.

“We have to go,” Brand drops a folder on their table in front of Bobbi, labelled STARBURST. “There’s been another one.” She sighs. “They think someone might have been caught up in thethis blast this time.”

Steve tries not to openly eye the folder. As far as he can tell, no one has made any progress with the explosions while he’s been assigned to RI; Brand’s new info seems to confirm his suspicion. Whoever is behind this, they’re good at covering their tracks.

But Steve was always good at tracking during the war. Maybe, if he could get some basic intel on the case, he could have a look for himself, see if he could help any.

Bobbi leafs quickly through the first couple of pages in the folder, and pulls a face. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Make it quick,” Brand tells her, walking away.

Bobbi turns back to Steve, closing the investigation folder and gathering up her things. “I have to go, Steve. Good luck with your date, okay?”

Steve stands up along with her. “Bobbi—” He looks more pointedly at the folder in her hand. “You… You wouldn’t, ah—”

“ _Steve_ ,” she purses he lips and tilts her chin, giving him a stern look. “Stoner said—”

“ _Please?_ ” He smiles imploringly at her. “I’ll get down on my knees, if I have to.”

Bobbi sighs, then pulls the top few pages from the folder and performs a simple _gemino_ curse on them. She hands Steve the new copies. “Save that for the soon-to-be-boyfriend,” she quips, making Scott laugh and Steve’s face heat up in embarrassment.

He holds the sheets in front of his face momentarily, shielding himself as well as taking in a cursory few details.

The latest explosion site revealed a detail that none of the others did: runes carved into the floor near the epicenter of the blast.The report notes seem to indicate that they were placed there by the bomber as part of a ritual.

According to the notes, it happened the previous night in Highbridge. Not terribly far from Sam’s apartment. Steve considers stopping by in a few days; hopefully Sam will be feeling better and the initial official investigation will be over.

“Thank you,” he says, waving the sheets in her direction before folding them up and inserting them into his jacket pocket.

“Promise me, Captain,” she points at him before slinging her bag over her shoulder and starting to head out. “Promise me you’ll ask him out.”

“I will,” he tells her. “Cross my heart and hope to—”

Scott coughs. “Hope to what now?”

“Right,” Steve trails off. “Ah, sorry.”

He looks through Scott’s translucent form to regard the large clock against the far wall; he should probably get ready for his day soon. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll catch Danvers or Whitman before he has to head out to RI. They’ll probably have good non-magical date ideas they can share with him.

He waves a thumb over his shoulder to the hallway leading to the building’s main foyer. “I should take off. Thanks for letting me bend your ear, Scott.”

“Anytime,” Scott assures him, with a little wave. “It’s fun to to hear about love lives that aren’t DOA. Happy to be your Ghost Host.”

Steve’s almost made it to to the door, when he hears Lang call out to him again.

“Hey, Rogers. I know you’ve been around longer than me, technically… But you’re not one, you know.”

“What?” Steve asks, turning.

“A ghost. You’re alive, Steve. Bobbi’s right: you’ve gotta start living.”

* * *

Of course, two days later, when Steve determines he’s going to ask Tony out, he’s scheduled for meetings with everyone but his favorite roboticist.

Sam is still feeling ill, apparently, so Steve is left to wrangle RI staff on his own. He’s swarmed by Supplier Quality Engineers asking about specifications, as well as IT staff probing him with questions about network connections and data integrations. He tries his best to answer, following the scripts MACUSA provided him, and asks all the correct questions in return to confirm that RI can produce wand scanners and the other magi-tech they’re interested in.

When he tries to break away to grab a bite, he is waylaid by none other than James Rhodes himself, who insists that Steve joins him for lunch.

“How’s it going, Mister Stevens?” Rhodes asks, stabbing his bowtie pasta salad with his fork. “You and Samuels finding… everything you need?”

“It’s going well,” Steve tells him. He picks up his sandwich, then puts it down again. "Your staff have all been amazing. _Extremely_ knowledgeable and professional, not to mention helpful." 

He picks up the sandwich and looks at it like he is devising a plan of attack; he's far, far too nervous to eat, but he doesn't want Rhodes to think he's acting strangely, so he forces himself to take a bite.

Rhodes beams with pride. "Good! Good. I notice you've been spending a lot of time with Tony in particular."

Steve stops mid-chew momentarily, the bread suddenly dry and crumbly in his mouth. _What?_

"He's not always what you'd call, ah, helpful. He can be prickly, unless he hits it off with someone..." Rhodes laughs and waves a hand. "I say that out of love. I don't know if you know this, Roger—I can call you Roger, right?— but I've known Tony for years. He's a friend as well as an employee. I’m glad to see you two are getting along."

Steve swallows painfully. "Yes, well... He's been nothing but—" he thinks of Tony's hand sliding inside his jacket, " _—thoughtful_ during our time together." Steve tries to keep his face completely neutral, and has no idea if he's succeeding or not.

"That's good," Rhodes repeats.

Then the smiles fades.

"Roger... listen. Legally, I have to preface this by saying this is not a 'shovel talk', and that I find that kind of a threat of violence morally repugnant, blah, blah, blah. _But_." He lowers his chin and stares evenly at Steve. "If you do anything— _anything_ to hurt Tony, or are thinking of using your relationship with him to get at the company—"

"Sir—" Steve scowls, surprised and defensive, "Did I give you the impression—?"

"No!" Rhodes says lightly, "No, you didn't, at all. I'm just covering my bases. I like you, Roger. I'm all for this, in fact. I _never_ get to see Tony this happy."

"I would never—" Steve continues.

"Of course! Which is why you are definitely not thinking about dating Tony, and we definitely didn't have this talk."

Rhodes returns to smiling politely and munching on pasta for long seconds, before mumbling under his breath: "Besides. A guy like me? Whole military technology company at his disposal? I'd use something _way_ bigger than a shovel."

Steve takes a swig of soda—that last bite of sandwich didn't go down so well.

* * *

Finally— _finally_ —the day is nearly over.

Steve checks the time on his phone (he’s actually getting sort of used to that motion now); 5:27pm. Hopefully Tony hasn’t left for the day.

He approaches to the door to Tony’s office, and is about to use his voice code to unlock the security panel, when the door swings open. Steve smiles, thinking he’ll see one of the bots, but a man with slicked back dark hair storms out, muttering to himself. Steve’s seen him in the hall with Sam a few times, the guy from the Biology department—

“Doctor Richards?”

“ _Yes?_ ” Richards spins to face Steve, annoyed at his progress being impeded—and then he goes absolutely still, suddenly seeming… bewildered. “You’re…” his eyes dip to take in Steve’s lanyard. “Roger Stevens,” he intones slowly.

It’s odd, the way Richards is saying it, as if Steve is a complete stranger; true, Steve doesn’t know him well, but they _have_ been introduced, albeit briefly.

“Everything all right?” Steve asks.

Richards gives an aggressive shake of his head. “ _Feh_ ,” he mutters angrily, and continues stomping away toward the elevator.

“HEY!” a familiar voices yells from inside the office door. Tony pops his head out of door frame, leaning out, clearing calling after Richards. Then he spots Steve, and his eyes light up.

“Oh, _hey_ ,” he says more softly, his pitch rising up and then dropping suggestively low on that last syllable, causing something warm to coil in Steve’s belly.

Tony’s hair’s a little more dishevelled than normal, and there’s a grease stain on his cheek—Steve’s fingers twitch as he thinks about reaching out to gently wipe it away.

Tony is wearing a more casual style of button down today, opened to reveal the heather gray A-shirt underneath; it hugs his lean body in a completely different way than his carefully tailored business casual outfits usually do. Steve’s mouth goes dry, and he has to tear his eyes away from the hint of Tony’s bare arms peeping out from the shirt seam—he has to focus enough to get through the invitation first.

“ _Hey_ ,” Steve replies, in what he hopes is similarly flirtatious fashion.

DUM-E and Tug wheel over next to Tony. The sight of all three of them, at their staggered heights, hanging in the doorway, breaks the tension at least; Steve wants to laugh.

“Sorry about Richards; he’s been in a snit all week for some reason. Maybe he misses Samuels. He feeling any better?” Tony inquires.

“Not yet.” Crap. That reminds him. Steve hasn’t heard from Sam in almost a full day. He really needs to call— _er, no! Sam is a Wizard!_ —drop him an owl and check in on him.

“Sorry to hear that. Well. Anyway. You, uh, need something?” Tony asks coyly. “Or just dropping by to say hi?”

 _Deep breaths, here we go._ “Both, really. I was… ah, hoping, maybe, if you were free tonight, you might—”

“—YES,” Tony cuts him off. “Sorry,” he adds brightly. “Was that too much? It was too much. Please, finish. I’ve only been waiting three weeks; I can hold out until the end of your sentence.”

“—like to join me for dinner?” Steve finishes, a little more confident in his words this time, since he’s got a _pretty_ good idea of what the answer will be.

“Yes,” Tony says, deliberately calmly this time. “I mean, I _think_ I’m available, I can probably make that work. Do you have a place in mind?”

Steve smiles at that. He does, actually.

“I’ll text you the address,” he says, even bolder than before (he _may_ have practiced texting with Bobbi yesterday, just so he’d know how to if it came up).

This is going to be _perfect_.

* * *

Everything is _terrible_.

He should _never_ have trusted the recommendation he got from Dane Whitman in the Mounted Auror's Unit. Never, ever, ever. A guy with a winged horse could make anything sound cool, couldn't he? Had he been _trying_ to set Steve up for failure? _Criminy_.

Of course, there’s the name of the place as well. It is, in Steve's opinion, a bit misleading.

He hadn't seen Italy under the best of conditions during the war. It was December, 1943, and they'd been tasked with taking back San Pietro Infine. The fighting went on for ten days in the cold; everyone was wading in muck up to their calves; the rolling hills were still flooded from the heavy November rains, and not even all the magic in the 5th army was enough to keep their boots dry.

But regardless of the circumstances, Steve thought of Southern Italy often, dreaming of what it must have been like in summer, in peacetime. Olive groves covered most of the region; they were the crop the area was known for, and even after all these years, Steve dreamt up fantasies of the sun beating down on the olive trees growing up and down the hillsides of Campania.

When Dane had said the nomaj restaurant's name, Steve's heart had leapt. _That_ was perfect. _That_ was what he wanted to share with Tony. Amazing cuisine, a romantic atmosphere... a little piece of the dream of Italy he longed to see for himself.

A garish three-story atrocity, marked with an abundance of green neon, packed wall-to-wall with tourists, including more crying nomaj children than Steve had _ever_ seen in his life, was definitely not what Steve assumed he would be getting.

But life—nomaj life in particular—is funny that way sometimes.

(If by 'funny', you mean 'absolutely mortifying.')

"Welcome to the Olive Garden," the server greets them, not sounding all that welcoming, while depositing a basket of breadsticks on the table. "Times Square," she adds, as if that bit wasn't completely obvious. “I’ll be back in a few moments to take your orders.”

Steve sighs and drags his eyes up from the plain white tablecloth to look at Tony. Tony, who probably thinks Steve is the biggest idiot he's ever met. Tony, who'll probably never speak to him apart from business details again. Tony, who...

...is smiling. _Wide_. Maybe a little _too_ wide, like he's been hit with some kind of laughter charm and is trying to fight it with all this might. And failing.

"So. This is, uh, unique," Tony says, a picture of sheer delight. Is he... laughing _at_ Steve? Tony's never struck Steve as the cruel type, but he doesn't understand Tony's reaction at all.

Maybe it's better than Tony being embarrassed and storming out in a huff. Steve still wants to crawl under the table, apparate away, and never show his face in public again.

"I swear, Tony, I had no idea." He buries his face in his hands for long seconds, then parts them enough for his mouth to peep through. "I am so sorry."

He uncovers his eyes to see that Tony's are... well, about the size of the massive appetizer platters he sees at the other tables.

"You... what?!" A bark of laughter escapes Tony's open mouth before his hands fly, faster than owls, to cover it. "Seriously? You never heard of the Olive Garden, and you thought... that it was—and you picked the one in _Times Square_ —"

"I thought... the 'garden' part sounded nice," Steve admits, the words little more than a mumble.

Tony looks like he's biting the inside of his cheek so hard that it's causing him physical pain, probably in order to stifle another series of chuckles.

"I... oh, Roger, I thought you were just being funny," he says, composing himself for a moment. "I was going to give you all the points for this maneuver, especially on a first date, but it’s even better if you—no!"

Tony reaches across the table to stop Steve before he can cover his ruby-red face yet again, catching the fingers of Steve's right hand with his own.

"Stop, stop, Rog, I'm not laughing at you—really—I'm sorry. I just... This is hysterical, and charming, and just so... astonishingly _perfect_ , and I would _never_ have thought to do this on my own, so... thank you. Truly."

From anyone else, Steve would suspect that this was a load of garbage; sweet lies to try and set him at ease and get the night back on track.

But in the moment, Tony's dark blue eyes are crystalline, shimmering with joy, and his hand is soft and warm, holding fast to Steve's. It's impossible to believe Tony is being anything but completely earnest, and the knot that twisted up in Steve's stomach upon their arrival at this zoo of a restaurant begins to unwind slightly. 

"Yeah?" He gives Tony a sheepish half-smile, and gets a little reassuring squeeze of Tony's hand as a reward.

"Yeah," Tony says, a whispered promise.

He raises an eyebrow, making the same expression he did the first day they met, when he was asking about coffee and tea, and thinking about his robots. Steve's starting to think of it as Tony's Planning Face, and it thrills and terrifies Steve in equal measure.

"Want to see a magic trick?" Tony asks.

Steve feels his tongue tripping over itself; he’s barely able to get a response out. "Sorry?"

Tony doesn't know about Steve's abilities, does he?

Tony relinquishes Steve's hand and bends down in his seat, only to pop back up with something on his lap: a briefcase of some kind. Steve had noticed Tony carrying it in passing when they arrived, but had forgotten about while he was, well, drowning in shame.

Tony gives a quick, surreptitious glance around, as if to make sure they aren't being watched, and, satisfied that the staff and other patrons are too busy annoying each other to see whatever he is about to do, he opens the briefcase.

Grabbing the one breadstick out of the basket, he dumps the rest into his briefcase, on top of a computer and what looks like some pieces of metal—an unfinished robot, perhaps.

Slamming the briefcase shut, and setting it back at his feet, he raises his arms in the air, waving the remaining breadstick in his hand in a looping gesture, something not dissimilar from a Swish-and-Flick spell casting motion. It hits Steve, then, what he's seeing: Tony's using the breadstick as a pretend _wand_. He's.... playing at being a… wizard. Or at least, what a nomaj _thinks_ a wizard is.

"TO ME, MY BREADSTICKS!" he calls, with enough volume and intensity for enough for their server to overhear. "ALA-KAZAM!"

Already carrying a tray of fresh bread baskets, she winds her way toward them, rolling her eyes as she does.

As she replaces the empty basket with a full one, she sighs tiredly, and glances back and forth between Tony and Steve.

"Just once, okay?" she warns Tony, sharply, but with a teasing edge to her voice. "And only because—" she nods at Steve— "he's cute."

Steve's blush, which had just begun to dissipate after the whole restaurant misunderstanding, comes back in full force.

"My lovely assistant, ladies and gentleman," Tony says in lieu of 'thank you.' "I'm going to pull a massive tip out of my hat for you later."

She laughs and shakes her head before proceeding to the other tables.

"Hmm, the words are still wrong," Tony muses, munching on his breadstick ‘wand.’ "Not the right... incantation, per se. But the effect was good, no?"

"You are..." Steve laughs, shaking his head, still in disbelief at what he's just seen. "You're not like anyone I've ever met, you know that?"

Even here—maybe especially here—among the vacationers clad in tacky t-shirts and khaki shorts, Tony looks _gorgeous_. Steve is finally calming down, and taking the time to take in his date’s appearance.

Tony clearly took the time to clean up before their date, and he looks breathtakingly handsome in a dark grey button down and tight-fitting indigo jeans. Steve wasn’t even sure people could look that good without using a glamor of some kind.

Steve is still just wearing the suit he usually wears to RI. He can’t help but feel he’s wearing a costume, but he has no idea what else might look good when not paired with wizarding robes. He wishes he could be himself, explain to Tony who he really is… but who he really is has already caused him enough trouble for one evening.

"I choose to take that as a compliment," Tony winks devilishly. "So. I've been loud and annoying enough for a while," he segues casually. “Your turn to talk. I want to hear how the hell it is that you’ve never heard of this fine establishment before. Did you grow up somewhere other than the United States? Serious question,” he clarifies, gesturing with the last bite of breadstick. “I grew up partly in Scotland and I’ve had my fair share of… culture shock, too.”

Steve swallows. How can he respond this question?

He's so tired of lying to Tony, whose attention is completely fixed on him, imploring an honest answer.

"Not exactly..." he begins. "My family was very conservative. Part of an... insular community, you might say. I'm not sure I want to talk about it—"

"I'm sorry," Tony backpedals immediately, obviously thinking he's triggered an awful memory of some kind.

"No, I'd like to, eventually... Just maybe not tonight. But as far as being sheltered from... well," he points to the restaurant around them, " _this_ , I think my time in the military might have been a factor, too," Steve adds, hoping he can adlib around that topic more easily than his childhood.

Steve talks about travel and combat, trying to sub in places he knows W.A.N.D.D. (and hopefully, the nomaj military) is stationed now for locations he fought on the European front, and when Tony asks him if the time in France and Germany Steve mentioned was part of a college program, Steve hastily agrees and lets Tony’s able mind fill in the gaps.

Giggling, they order the Taste of the Italy platter, and, while picking at too soft pasta slathered in inauthentic sauce, Tony talks a little more about himself, revealing a bit more about the man behind the machines.

His father, Howard, used to own his own business, and his mother, Maria, was a microbiologist. It seems Tony and his father didn’t agree on a lot, but they both adored Maria; Tony waxes lovingly about both her beauty and her genius, and it’s obvious he misses her a lot.

Soon, though, it becomes clear that Tony is as cagey on certain topics as Steve is. 

"Aye, Scotland," Tony says, when Steve mentions what Tony had said earlier, performing a credible impression of that country's rhotic accent. "Beautiful place. My parents had a lovely house in the Highlands when I was born. But..." a shadow falls across his face as he speaks. "Our situation changed when I was getting into my teens, and we moved back to the States. I... fell ill," he confesses. "I... don't think I want to talk about that right now, either."

Tony... was sickly as a child? Steve can certainly relate to that. As much as he wants to know more, though, it'd be hypocritical of him to press the issue. More importantly, this is the first time Steve's ever seen shame dashed across Tony's features, and he doesn't like it one bit.

"Say no more," Steve reassures him.

"Thanks." A smile returns to Tony's face. "So, what do you like to do for—"

" _GODDAMMIT, KYLE!_ "

Steve and Tony both turn sharply at the outburst, coming from a balding, middle-aged man stands up at a table nearby. He seems to be railing at a young boy—his son?—whose head is cast downward, taking in the berating words silently with closed eyes.

“What did I _tell_ you?” the father hisses at the child. He’s waving something in the air angrily—a nomaj toy of some kind. A horse? No, a unicorn. A purple one, with pink streaks in its hair.

“I don’t intend to raise a sissy boy. These toys are for _girls_ ,” the man snarls, lacing the last word with venom. “You’re not a _girl_ , are you?”

The boy—Kyle, Steve assumes—shakes his head furiously, almost nonsensically, as if it’s a habit, a learned response dissociated from his dad’s words. His is gaze still trained down towards his hands, now fidgeting nervously in his lap. He’s clearly heard this all before and doesn’t want to risk disagreeing with his father again.

A waitress, the same one who indulged Tony’s breadstick shenanigans, is already approaching the man, probably to confront him about making a scene, but the man intercepts her before she can even admonish him.

“Here,” he shoves the unicorn toy at her dismissively, “Throw this out.”

“Sir?” She frowns at the toy, and then at the son, who looks as though he’s trying not to cry. “Is everything okay? The other patrons are—”

“Everything’s fine,” he argues, sitting back down, seemingly done causing a ruckus after having embarrassed his son in front of all the surrounding tables. “Can we get some more pop and breadsticks already? _Thanks_.”

The waitress pauses a moment, like she’s deciding whether to press the issue, then begins to walk away, obviously disturbed by what she’s just seen.

As Tony glances back at Steve, he scowls, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“No,” he says, voice gone low and dangerous, seemingly to no one in particular, and Steve starts to realize that Tony’s Planning Face is nothing compared to his Determined Face; Steve has no idea what’s about to happen, and there is no way anyone in this restaurant is going to be ready for it.

Tony waves their waitress down, and she crosses to him, looking annoyed.

“Hi—” Tony scans her nametag quickly, “Angela—c’mere.”

She looks at him skeptically at first, but bends down, allowing him to whisper several sentences in her ear.

She nods at first, then shakes her head. “Sir, I can’t—” she protests.

He pulls her back in, continuing to explain, while simultaneously fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. Steve can’t quite see the full amount he’s retrieving, and he’s not an expert on the relative costs of things in nomaj dollars, but the top bill says ‘100’ on it, and there’s definitely more than one in the stack he hands to her.

She pauses, looking nervously at the money he’s handing her.

“Please,” he implores her. “Don’t you wanna put that guy in his place as much as I do?”

Resolved, she nods, and Tony grins. He pulls his briefcase up again, and extracts what appear to be several more of his calling cards, giving those to her as well.

“Thank you,” he tells her finally, sincerely.

“I hated this job, anyway,” she tosses back over her shoulder, smiling as she makes her way to the other tables she’s serving, cards and cash tucked into her apron.

What was that about?

“Tony…?” Steve asks, trying to coax out an explanation out of him.

Tony stands up from their table, carrying his briefcase, and crosses to Steve, holding his free hand out.

“ _Stevens-Roger-Stevens,_ man of my dreams,” he says, voice all sweetness, “this is without a doubt the best first date I have ever been on. But shit, as the kids say, is about to get _extremely_ real, and I need to know something right now.”

“Yes?” Steve asks, breathless as Tony helps him to his feet.

“May I kiss you?” Tony asks.

Steve’s heart starts beating double time. “Now?”

“In about… one minute,” Tony answers cryptically, glancing quickly at the surrounding tables, then back at Steve.

“Yes,” Steve says, trying to be calm, wondering what’s going to happen in a minute, and how much more ‘real’ the situation could possibly get.

“ _Yay_ , good.” Tony says cheerily. “Can’t wait. But first…”

He strolls away from their table, pulling Steve along by the hand, and he realizes Tony is dragging him over to the table with the angry man and his son.

Uh oh.

“Evening: Kyle, Kyle’s Loud Father,” Tony greets them pleasantly, just as Angela is bringing their requested soda and breadsticks.

Steve looks pleadingly at the waitress, who shrugs, as if to say, “I don’t know what he’s doing either,” and walks away to serve her other tables.

“What the hell do you want?” Kyle’s father asks Tony, who only looks pleased by this response.

“Kyle,” Tony turns and addresses the boy. The boy looks up at Tony, wide-eyed. “I was just talking with my buddy Roger about how _friendship_ is _magic_. Don’t you think it’s magic, Roger?” He looks at Steve expectantly.

“Yes,” Steve answers, hoping that’s what Tony wanted to hear.

“No reasonable person would disagree,” Tony proclaims, nodding.

He crouches down next to Kyle’s seat, then, so he can speak to the boy directly, setting his bag on the floor.

“You know what else is magic?” he asks.

Kyle shakes his head.

“ _Me_ ,” Tony tells him, snapping his fingers with a flourish—and for some reason, it takes Steve back to his childhood, to old Mr. McDonagh and his newspaper stand, back when magic was _magical_.

As Tony does so, the baskets of breadsticks on all the tables Angela was serving… begin to _levitate._

But that can’t be—Tony isn’t—he’s a _nomaj_ , he can’t—

Everyone in the restaurant is looking at them now, some people are even pulling out their phones—Steve vaguely remembers an image capturing feature being part of the device.

Tony stands up. Raising his arms over his head, he motions with his hands, and the baskets dance in a circle in the air.

Steve is as astonished as everyone else, though his reasons are completely different. Tony is… a wizard?

He doesn’t have any kind of a wand that Steve can see, but that’s not necessarily a requirement for a talented wizard—Steve himself is living proof of that.

If Tony was a wizard… Merlin’s beard, it would be everything Steve had ever dreamed of. He could be himself around Tony. They could even _work_ together—there would be no way the Auror’s Bureau—or any MACUSA division, for that matter—wouldn’t want to hire someone as accomplished as Tony clearly was; with such a brilliant understanding of nomaj tech as well, he’d be a shoe-in.

Tony beckons to one of the baskets, and it floats closer to him. He plucks it from the air, and, rooting around in the breadsticks, he pulls out the purple unicorn.

“Here you go,” Tony says softly, seriously, handing Kyle back his cherished toy, “Don’t _ever_ let _anyone_ make you feel bad about who you are, okay?”

Kyle’s smile of delight warms Steve’s heart.

Kyle’s father, on the other hand, is red-faced and furious at this intrusion, however spectacular it may be. He stands up and throws down his napkin, attempting to rush at Tony.

Steve steps in between the man and Tony, blocking Tony with his body. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Steve warns the man.

He thinks he could, even without drawing his wand, push the man back down into his seat with a simple _stupefy mollis_ spell _,_ cast only with his hands. It’d be a small enough effect that the other diners probably wouldn’t even see—not that Steve wouldn’t risk exposure if he had to. Whatever it takes to keep Tony safe.

But it appears none of that will be necessary. The man, humiliated, sits back down in a huff.

Another woman in an embroidered Olive Garden uniform shirt approaches them—probably a supervisor of some kind?

“Gentlemen,” she says, grinning from ear to ear, more like she’s congratulating them than chastising them, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Tony holds up a finger to her. “One second.”

He spins around, then, and, exactly on time, pulls Steve into a kiss.

It’s meant to be a peck, Steve can tell, more performative than anything, a gesture to further enrage Kyle’s cretin of a dad.

But the instant their lips meet, Steve is hit with a wave of heat. Tony moans softly into Steve’s mouth, and Steve is sure Tony feels the same as he does.

Steve is heady with delight. He’s—he really shouldn’t be thinking this, not yet, but it’s true, it _has_ to be—he’s in love with a gorgeous young man, who is _also_ secretly a wizard… and Steve hasn’t even revealed his real _name_ yet.

They’ve _really_ got to get out of here and talk.

Reluctantly, Steve pulls away, just as Tony is about to deepen the kiss. Tony’s eyes flutter open as he comes back to himself.

“Wow,” he breathes, eyes locked on Steve, as if they are the only ones in the room, as if they’re not being orbited by bread baskets and watched by a hundred sets of eyes.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.

Without looking away, Tony raises a hand and snaps his fingers with another stylish flair, and all the baskets fall to the floor at once.

“All right,” he says a little louder. “We’re out.”

Tony quickly bends to grab his briefcase, and makes for the exit at a quick but graceful clip, with Steve hot on his heels. Before they’ve gotten halfway to the door, Steve hears the restaurant burst into a round of applause behind them.

 

* * *

 

They walk as fast as they can without running, for about a block, evading the green glow of the restaurant’s multiple neon signs, and the lingering gazes of the patrons through the glass windows.

They say nothing to each other, simply strolling quickly and holding hands, wearing matching expressions that resemble the kneazle who got the cream.

They reach the intersection of Broadway and 44th, and Steve feels a tug on his sleeve; Tony stops walking, and, using Steve's own momentum, yanks Steve back to him, twirling Steve to face him.

They stare deeply into each other’s eyes, and then...

They burst out laughing, heads thrown back, unable to contain themselves any longer. They laugh long and loud, and it leaves Steve breathless and teary with absolute joy for the first time since he woke up.

[Tony starts to double over, wheezing, resting his right hand on Steve's chest, forehead pressing against Steve’s collarbone. Steve, still chuckling, carefully slides his hands over the small of Tony's back.](https://68.media.tumblr.com/308425c3f521230b746ef601347761b3/tumblr_ork1vueRax1sqw779o1_1280.jpg)

Slowly, enjoying every ragged inhale and exhale, every thump of their syncopated racing hearts, they quiet themselves, laughter fading into contented smiles.

"That was... incredible," Steve compliments Tony.

"I bet you say that to all the cute roboticists," Tony whispers in Steve's ear, sending shivers up Steve's spine... until it registers what Tony's just said.

What does technology have to do with it? Not that Steve isn't impressed by that as well, but doesn't Tony want to talk about magic? After all the time they’ve spent hiding it from one another?

Tony pulls back just slightly, reaching behind his back and grabbing one of Steve's hands, sliding it brazenly over his ass.

Steve's eyes widen, first at Tony's boldness... and then at what's under his own fingertips. 

There's something flat and round in Tony's back pocket.

Tony waggles his eyebrows, then slips his own hand under Steve's and retrieves the object, holding it up between their bodies.

It's one of his calling cards, the same kind he gave to Steve on the day they met.

The same kind he gave to the waitress.

Tony presses a pattern into the side with the red and gold design, and the card expands, doubling in thickness, parts shifting into place, panels sliding open to reveal spinning rotors. The card—or robot, Steve supposes—lifts off Tony's hand and into the air, hovering around in a circular pattern like the baskets.

"Ta-dah!" Tony announces gleefully. "Microdrone calling cards! More than meets the eye!"

Before he can stop himself from reacting, Steve's cheerful expression falls away. He feels like he's been hit in the guts with a bludger.

It... wasn't magic?

"What?" Tony asks, picking up on the shift in Steve's mood immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Uh," Steve mumbles, trying to think on his feet. "The boy, Kyle. You don't think... his dad will take all that out on him, do you?"

"Oh," Tony glances upward in thought as the drone hovers back down to his outstretched hand. "No... I mean, I highly doubt it. That guy seemed more like a blowhard than anything. He was pretty embarrassed. I bet he'll mostly just want to forget that this ever happened." Tony pockets the drone and beams at Steve again.

"But _I_ don't want to forget. It was too perfect. _You're_ too perfect. It’s even worth it if I end up being internet infamous for a few hours."

Tony rests his head against Steve's shoulder again, musing about how he'll have to write a script that leaves comments on all the videos taken of the incident, discrediting it as a hoax.

But for once, Steve can't pay attention to the details of Tony's technobabble.

Tony’s not a wizard after all.

He did it all with tech.

Objectively, that only makes it all the more incredible.

But Steve’s dreams are dashed; he feels them fading like a cancelled spell.

That innate connection Steve thought he was feeling with Tony can’t be real. Not yet, anyway.

He had heard about the Mirror of Erised growing up, the magical glass that showed you your heart’s fondest desire—what kid hadn’t?—and always wished he could see it.

But now he wonders if this was what it was like to look in it and watch your dream come true, only to turn around to see nothing at all behind you, realizing the image in the mirror was only an illusion.

He’ll have to go on pretending to be Roger Stevens for now. Have to go on seeing Tony at RI, and texting Tony on his nomaj mobile phone, and being humiliated when he doesn’t know what restaurants to go to.

He’ll have to be on his own for a while longer.

 _What an awful thing to think_ , Steve berates himself, realizing how petulant that sounds.

He’s alive. He’s _not_ alone. He has Sam, and Bobbi, and everyone else at MACUSA—if only Steve would let them in.

And he has Tony, too, for that matter, right here in arms. He’s still the amazing, delightful man Steve had a crush on hours ago.

Steve takes a deep breath and focuses on Tony’s right hand sliding reciprocally around his back, Tony’s breath rising and falling, and the delicious warmth curling in him where their bodies meet. He looks down at Tony, and Tony looks lazily back up at him, those deep blue eyes sparkling in the lights of the shining billboards all around them.

They'll be all right.

The world waited seventy years for Steve to come back to life, and Tony waited three weeks for Steve to ask him out: Steve can wait a little bit longer.

Steve continues gazing down at Tony with half-lidded eyes.

“Would you—” he starts, a little dreamily.

Tony shivers and blinks and squeezes Steve before interrupting him and pushing away from his chest a few inches.

“Oh, god, I _want_ to. I would _love_ to. You have no idea—I mean, maybe you _do_ —hopefully you do—” Tony gives a manic little laugh, “because you’re asking me—but I _can’t_.”

“You…?” Steve asks, a bit confused.

He sighs, looking sad and resigned. “Can’t. Go back to your place. Or invite you back to mine. Not tonight.” Tony pushes his body the rest the way away from from Steve, leaving him a little chilly in the cool spring air.

Tony thought Steve was asking him to…? Oh _. Oh._

Steve blushes hard, feeling it up to the tips of his ears.

Tony smiles ruefully and wiggles his left hand—oh, the briefcase. Tony hadn’t put it down since they left the restaurant. Steve had nearly forgotten.

“Have to head back to the office to take care of something,” Tony explains.

“Some urgent baked good-based research?” Steve teases, nodding at the briefcase—and its doughy contents.

“Something like that,” Tony agrees.

Steve wants... what Tony wants, too— _definitely_. But Tony doesn’t know who he is yet, not really. The thought of Tony calling him _‘Roger’_ while they… No, Steve can’t tonight, either.

“I was actually just going to ask if you would let me have a second chance at picking a better restaurant,” Steve explains, quickly adding, “But I _also_ want to… invite you over to, ah, spend some time…” He lets a hand coast over the back of his neck, which is also going hot as he struggles to finish the sentence.

“Both,” Tony cuts in, nodding. “I’m game for both.” He favors Steve with one more lopsided, charming smile. “See you Monday?”

“Text you tomorrow,” Steve promises, going one better. "Maybe even later tonight."

Tony, seemingly pleased with that answer, smiles and leans in again, closing his eyes. Steve does the same, feeling a soft, warm breath, gentle on his lips just before they meet Tony's.

The kiss starts slow, but builds in intensity, both of them wanting more than either can give tonight. Tony catches Steve's lower lip between his teeth and tugs gently, making a devastating little humming sound as he does so. Steve's belly gives a little flutter, like it's full of Cornish pixies.

When they part and Steve opens his eyes again, he finally notices that the sun has completely set; the massive billboards all around them are shining all the brighter, streaming light down on them, casting a multicolored, dancing glow over both their faces.

How can Tony not be a wizard? He's changed Steve's world so completely, lit him up from the inside, made him feel alive.

He couldn't still be hiding it, could he?

"What?" Tony asks seriously, taking in Steve's observant silence.

Steve hesitates before asking. "You don't want to tell me something, do you?"

Tony raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Is there... something I _should_ tell you? Or something you want to tell _me_?"

What if he told Tony everything, right now? What if they _did_ go back to Steve's place? Maybe Bobbi was right, maybe he was making too big a deal of this.

Tony's watch chirps, breaking the silence, and Tony's eyes flick away for just a moment; he's trying to stay focused on Steve, but is obviously distracted by whatever the device on his wrist is trying to tell him.

"No," Steve says finally. "Not at all. And you have to—"

"—go," Tony finishes, sheepishly. "Okay. Thank you again for the best time. I'll remember it as long as I live."

"Goodnight," Steve tells him, forcing himself to take a half step back, parting from Tony.

Tony holds the briefcase handle with hands, rocking back on his heels once, clearly as reluctant to leave as Steve. "Goodnight," he says finally, turning and heading toward the nearest street corner and hailing a cab.

Steve watches the yellow vehicle pull away with his hands in his coat pockets, sighing wistfully, thoughts of the last kiss they shared filling his head. Momentary confusion and disappointment aside, that was... a pretty perfect first date, all things considered.

When the cab is completely gone from view, Steve starts to meander away from the most populated areas of the square, away from theatregoers and costumed mascots.

He could go home. But it's too early for bed, and besides, Steve is far too keyed up for sleep. He can only think of Tony, and now he's thinking about bed, and Tony _in_ his bed, and... god, he's going to drive himself crazy that way. He needs a distraction.

It comes to him in a flash: he'll pick up some hot Eel’s eye stew from Hungry Hippogriff in Highbridge, and take it to Sam's apartment. It'll make Sam feel better, and Sam will harp on Steve if he talks about Tony too much, so Steve’ll be prevented from dwelling on his date. It's a perfect solution.

It has absolutely _nothing_ to do with the fact that the deli is around the corner from the latest explosion site, on the case he is absolutely not supposed to be working on. That... is mere coincidence.

Steve just wants to do his pal a favor, he tells himself, ducking into an alleyway.

Reasonably certain that no one is looking, he pulls out his wand.

 _Just a favor_ , he thinks, flicking his wrist, and, as he succumbs to the nauseating squeezing feeling that always accompanies disapparating, he vanishes into thin air.

* * *

The line is longer than he would have expected at the Hungry Hippogriff, and they’re out of Eel eye stew, so Steve has to settle for a Flobberworm bisque, but he’s finally on his way, strolling out of the back alley that conceals the deli from nomaj passersby.

He pulls out his Two-Way Mirror, and tries to summon Sam, but there’s no answer; it’s dark and still in the reflected image of Sam’s apartment. Maybe Sam is sleeping. Steve probably should have checked before he had to stand behind that obnoxious Holyhead Harpies fan for twenty minutes. He sighs.

Heading down the street, brown paper deli bag in hand, Steve prepares to disapparate, about to head home, when he catches a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye.

Turning to regard it head on, Steve sees it’s a streetlamp flickering on the opposite street corner, in front of a two-story red brick building. It has no signage, and nothing can be seen in the row of darkened windows on the second floor to indicate what might be inside. Facing the street at ground level is a single closed garage door. At a glance, it doesn’t look particularly odd, save for looking newer than the surrounding apartment buildings and corner stores.

Except… upon closer inspection, it seems the garage door affixes directly to the brick at the top, where it should curve inward; it doesn’t look like it has a mechanism to open, like it even _can_ open, the way a nomaj one would. Steve might not have noticed if he hadn’t been spending so much time around mechanical engineers, but now the strangeness of it is obvious to him.

That, coupled with the flickering streetlight (often a side effect of a spell in use in a nearby area), tells Steve he’s looking at the effects of a warding charm: an imperfect illusion, meant to keep nomajs away.

This must be the latest explosion site.

Steve pauses. He’s already here, and it doesn’t appear anyone else from the Bureau is around at the moment.

His colleagues who were officially assigned to the case had cleaned up the previous sites straight away; the fact that they had left the crime scene, and the evidence contained therein, remain as-is was telling—were they having trouble finding additional leads?

Steve sets the bag containing Sam’s soup on the curb and approaches the building’s facade. He closes his eyes and walks directly at the brick wall, hoping with all his might that he’s right, that this is a warding charm, and that he won’t simply bounce off, knocked back onto the pavement with nothing to show but a bruised forehead.

The wall feels like a cold mist when he passes through it.

Opening his eyes, he comes face to face with the remains of a bombing—the signature silver starburst pattern is even more pronounced this time—it's even more beautiful and horrible than it had appeared in Stoner’s scans.

Treading as cautiously as possible, Steve makes his way to the center of what was once a room. There are runes scratched in the concrete, just like the most recent report said.

He crouches down to inspect them—it's hard to make them out in the debris of the blast. But, gently brushing a bit of rubble away with his fingers, he notes the individual glyphs. In fact, he recognizes them as Ogham—Ancient Irish.

But the speech isn't—at least, not one of the few words he learned from his mom. And it's not English, either.

He runs a finger over the scratched rune. It’s shaky, erratically and hastily carved.

The report indicated that MACUSA was working under the assumption that the wizard responsible for the explosions had written the rune—but this was not the precision work of someone preparing a ritual.

What if a _victim_ had carved this?

Steve references the folded copy of the report Bobbi gave him. An older gentleman had lived here—a classical portkey craftsman. No one could confirm whether he had been caught up in the blast or not—there was no trace of him to be found afterward, no bones, teeth, wand core, anything. But given that no one had seen him in several days, it was assumed that perhaps he was; the explosion had been so violent, perhaps he was completely disintegrated.

Steve lets the seemingly nonsensical order of the letters shift through his mind... and it sparks a memory.

The fellow had been an older gentleman. Born in the 1920s... Just like Steve.

Maybe he had been a war vet, too.

There had been a code, Steve recalls, a cipher he and the others at the front had known... Nothing like what the cryptomancers used at Bletchley, of course. It was simple, just a letter transposition that they had sometimes used to pass messages around if they had to interact with an SOE contact, or thought maybe they were being scryed on. Each unit had a different number of letters to transpose—Steve had no idea what unit this man was a part of, though, or if that was even the cypher in question, but he could at least start working on some different combinations.

Steve pulls out his wand to scan the runes when he hears a shuffling behind him.

Under what remains of the staircase, covered over by debris, there's something moving in the darkness; the air seems to ripple and glitter.

Steve's only seen an invisibility cloak once before, in Auror Academy training, but he's never forgotten what it looked like.

Steve raises his wand defensively. “Come on out, I can see you.”

The figure bolts.

Steve blasts off a "REVELIO!", but the figure moves too quickly, dodging his spell. They rush toward and through the faux wall, the cloak flapping around them as they go, a shimmer of light, disturbing the air.

The perp has him at a disadvantage; if they're a wizard—and they must be, really; who else would have an invisibility cloak?—they can just apparate away. Unless Steve can get in touching distance of them and follow along, he'll have no idea where they're going. Spells leave a trace, and Steve has the training to follow them, but there are obscuring countercharms; if the person he’s tracking is gone, they’re probably gone for good.

But Steve is surprised at what he sees when he crosses the threshold of the illusory building. The figure is... running. Just running.

What is going on here?

Steve sets off at a sprint, chasing them in earnest now.

The figure dashes down alleyways, twisting and turning, and at one point, leaping a fence—the bottom of the cloak flips up momentarily, and Steve thinks he sees silvery metal boots on the wizard's feet... Armor of some kind?

Steve remembers the last time he saw an armored figure wearing a cloak. He suppresses a shudder as he tries to keep pace with the trespasser.

That would be impossible, he tells himself. Doom can't still be alive.

But then again, _Steve_ is. What if Doom survived the blast, too?

Steve hadn't actually considered that the person he was chasing was the one behind these explosions—involved perhaps, but probably not the mastermind behind these disturbances. Why would the perpetrator return to the scene of their own crime?

Maybe they needed to, he considers. Maybe the rune written by the victim had given away too much, and they had to scour the evidence.

Maybe this could all end tonight.

As they wind their way closer to Yankee Stadium, the landscape changes some—it's a more populated area, even at this late hour, and Steve doubles his concentration to keep the cloaked figure in his sights as they dart between nomajs.

Steve excuses himself as he pushes his way through the crowd, still hot on the figure's heels, following them to... the entrance of a soaring nomaj tower. A hotel, Steve thinks, as he shoves through the revolving door.

He glances around the lobby trying to catch sight of the figure. The shine of brass details at the reception desk and light reflecting off chandeliers gives Steve momentary pause, but he finally sees the signature glints of light racing up one of the grand staircases, and then turning toward another stairwell.

Steve stops—he _has_ to get ahead of his target somehow. It's a gamble, but if he can guess where they're going, maybe he can use a shortcut.

He turns right abruptly and heads for the bank of elevators, stopping briefly to take in a map of the hotel’s layout near the call buttons.

A completely separate elevator looks like it can be boarded from the rooftop bar, and taken down to street level; if Steve was trying to get away without having to double back through the main entrance, that would probably be the first thing he would try.

Satisfied as he can be with his guess work, he runs toward an elevator car nearly full of nomaj passengers.

Steve thrusts his hand between the closing doors, tripping the sensor to reopen them (thank Merlin they work the same way the ones at Rhodes do), and he barrels in.

“Hey, man, it’s kinda crowded in here already—” one gentleman begins to protest, but Steve’s wand is at the ready before he can finish his sentence.

“Sorry, folks,” Steve tells everyone, flicking his wrist. The effect of the _ascendio celerus_ is immediate, enveloping the entire elevator car, and shooting it up to the top floor at an alarming speed.

A quick _alohomora,_ and Steve’s out of the elevator, leaving most of the nomajs inside speechless—save for what sounds like one young girl, whom Steve can hear pronouncing it the ‘best ride EVER’, before he casts a locking _colloportus_ charm behind him, sending the elevator back down.

He’s either beaten his prey to the top floor, or he’s guessed entirely wrong, because he’s alone in the hallway.

To his left are glass doors leading to the bar, the only feature on this level, according to the map. It’s currently empty, and several signs seem to indicate that it’s closed for renovations. 

To his right is the door to the stairwell.

Nothing to do but wait.

He positions himself squarely in front the door, blocking the path of anyone that might come through.

Just as he’s sure that he made a mistake, that his quarry must be a block away by now, he hears clanking footsteps, the sound of metal on metal, and raises his wand in anticipation.

The door swings open with a slam, but before Steve can cast anything, he’s hit with a blast—it's like no spell he's ever experienced, a bolt of pure energy striking him square in the chest. He's knocked back into the opposite wall, stunned.

Steve rights himself as the footsteps tear off in the direction of the bar; he gives chase again without a moment’s hesitation, pushing through the glass doors and shooting off several rounds of _corripio_ —a grabbing spell. He catches chairs and cocktail tables with the spell as he goes, narrowly missing the perp's cloak every time. Steve growls in frustration, flinging furniture to the side. There’s going to be a lot of cleanup enchantment, not to mention a ridiculous amount of paperwork, but he can’t think of that right now.

As they reach the edge of the balcony, Steve's spell finally manages to tag the edge of the invisibility cloak, snagging the edge of it like an invisible hand. Steve yanks back with his wand, and the cloak comes with it, releasing from the figure's body.

The figure—a man of slight but muscular build, in a tight, black long-sleeved shirt and jeans, specifically—stops running. Both, Steve assumes, because he's been revealed, but also because he has nowhere to go, except perhaps several hundred feet down. He doesn’t have a broom or a wand as far as Steve can see, and if he was going to disapparate, he would have done it already.

As Steve spied earlier, the man has not only metallic boots on, but also silvery grey metallic gauntlets, and a helmet to match, covering his face.

"You're coming with me," Steve informs him, holding him at wandpoint.

The man turns around—the helmet's faceplate is sleek, smooth, all clean lines. It bears an intimidating expression, but not one of cruelty like Doom's old armor. But that doesn't mean that, if it is indeed the same man, that he couldn't have upgraded in the intervening years.

A robotic huff of air comes from the helmet—a sigh, Steve thinks.

"Goddammit, Roger," the man says, sounding disappointed. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

The voice doesn't have an accent, like Doom's did—but that's not what's throwing Steve for a loop.

The man... knows him?

Wait.

He said Roger. Not _Rogers_.

Oh, no. No, no, no. It can't be.

As if he knows what Steve's thinking, the man presses a catch on the side of the helmet, and its faceplate pops open, confirming Steve's worst fears.

Tony Cererra gives Steve a sad half-smile.

"Yeah, okay," he sighs again, sounding more human. "Guess it has to be like this."

And with that, he pops the faceplate back down, walks to the edge of the balcony overlooking the city, hops the railing... and steps off the edge.

Oh god—did he just—what is _happening?_ —

Before Steve can even close his mouth, let alone run to the edge of the rooftop, there’s a strange whirring sound, and something rockets up above the edge of the balcony at a tremendous speed.

Tony slows and eventually stops, levitating in the air, twenty feet above where Steve is standing. Light radiates from his palms and the soles of his feet, as well as from the eye slits of the silver mask.

His face is covered, but he cocks his head to one side, inquisitively, almost expectantly.

Then the gloves and boots give off that whirring noise again, and Tony bursts upward again, at an astonishing speed. Doing a graceful loop in the air, he sets off south and west, toward Central Park.

Steve stands absolutely still for a moment, entirely in shock. He may as well be made of stone again.

He can’t believe what he’s just seen.

Tony’s shape gets smaller and smaller as he rockets away from Steve, and suddenly his auror training kicks in; he can’t let a suspect escape, not when there’s a chance he could prevent Tony from— _god, how can it be true?_ —from hurting anyone else.

Heading back to the ground and catching a cab would be too slow, and he _thinks_ he knows where Tony is headed, but he can’t be sure; he needs to follow.

Steve spins around, searching the bar area for something, anything he can use— _ah!_ —

It’s... not ideal, that’s for certain, but it will have to do: from a janitor’s rolling bucket, he retrieves a rather disgusting looking floor mop. Not even stopping to wring the water out of it, Steve climbs aboard it and lifts off. Descending only momentarily to scoop up the invisibility cloak, he sails over the balcony’s edge and into the night.

He’s got a killer to catch.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve soars a thousand feet above Central Park, just darting up into the clouds enough to maintain some cover from the nomajs below, but low enough to keep an eye on Tony's flight pattern.

Tony.

 _Merlin's beard._ How can it be?

Tony... is a wizard after all.

He has to be.

He's been using his magic to make himself look like a scientist, but it's all been spells.

He might be the one behind all the explosions.

Given that Steve seems to have confirmed at least one victim from the last explosion, he might be a _murderer_.

He might even be the same man—Steve feels himself reeling slightly, and tightens his grip on the mop beneath him—who tried to kill him seventy years ago.

The same man who killed Bucky.

How could Steve have been so taken in? He thought he was in _love_ with the man. They _kissed!_ Steve was imagining a future with him!

He's going to have to place Tony under arrest now. Tony will be put on trial, and imprisoned at the Raft—the underwater wizarding prison just off the coast, the last prison in the United States to still use Dementors as guards. He'll stay there for the rest of his life—that is, if he's not sentenced immediately to the Dementor’s Kiss.

Steve imagines Tony behind bars, or, worse, having his soul torn from his body by a hovering cloaked creature, and feels a sharp twisting in his chest.

He shouldn’t pity Tony. He shouldn't. If he’s the one behind all this, that means he’s clearly a terrible person, incapable of remorse.

But... Steve has spent the past three weeks with him, day in and day out. He seemed so _good_. How can any of this be happening?

Tony turns, adjusting his trajectory, bringing Steve out of his thoughts, and Steve follows.

It looks like Tony's headed back to RI. _Looks like he did have to go back to the office after all,_ Steve thinks ruefully.

Tony begins his descent to a large landing area built off the eastern side of the building, a beautiful curved balcony, twenty by thirty feet. It leads directly into the main robotics lab on the 118th floor. Tony had showed off some of RI’s larger military drones there last week. Steve had thought they were wonderful: broomless flight! How innovative!

He never dreamed they were magical devices in disguise, or that Tony would be using those same spells to make a getaway.

As Tony touches down, though, Steve is puzzled. It's not much of a getaway if Tony returns to a place Steve knows about, let alone to one Steve goes to nearly every day and still has security clearance for.

And come to think of it, Tony had never tried to hurt Steve. He hadn't put up a fight at all, he just ran—and then flew—away. That didn’t seem like the behavior of a criminal desperate to keep an auror at bay.

He even revealed his identity to Steve, unprompted.

Did Tony believe he and Steve were so enamored of one another that he could win Steve over to his side? Tony was going to be sorely disappointed if that was the case. Nothing justified hurting other wizards outside of a combat situation—nothing.

Steve lowers his mop over the landing pad, and hops down without breaking his stride. He throws the cleaning implement aside and draws his wand once more, pointing it at Tony's back as the roboticist—no, rogue wizard—makes his way into the lab. His scowl is all bravado; he hopes he looks far more confident than he his.

"Stop," he commands. "Tony Cerrera, you are under arrest, on suspicion of first degree disintegration, destruction of public property, and possession of unregistered magical devices. You have the right to refuse to Legilimency, and to decline to provide your memories for inspection in a pensieve until such time as evidence is found that—"

Tony continues pushing through the door.

Steve raises his wand higher, aiming. "STOP," he warns again, raising his voice.

Tony begins to turn, lifting both arms; he presents one palm in what Steve hopes in a peaceful gesture while the other goes to his head, presumably to pop the faceplate again.

But before Steve can get another word out, a massive, inhuman figure appears before him, seemingly out of nowhere.

At least fifteen feet tall, its long, serpentine neck uncoils, arcing down over Steve menacingly. Its mouth opens, releasing a high-pitched cry.

Steve's blood runs cold. He stumbles backward, dropping the invisibility cloak, and holds up his shieldless forearm instinctively.

 _Hydra_ , his brain screams. _It's a hydra_.

_TonyisDoom—DoomisTony—ohgodhe'sback—_

Steve regains the smallest amount of focus, taking another step back from the creature, and fires off a spell from his wand.

The creature shrieks again and spreads its wings—no, wing, singular—there's only one on the right side of its long, narrow body—

_—hydra don't have wings—_

The spell goes wide, whizzing past the creature and impacting... Tony, who is holding up one of his gloves defensively. The spell ricochets away ineffectually.

"HEY!" Tony steps in front of the creature, waving his arms wildly in the universal gesture for 'stop it'—seemingly meant for both Steve and the creature.

"YOU! STOP!" Tony glances backward at the beast, and as Steve's haze of panic recedes, he noticing the animal has a beak, not the lizard-like snout of a hydra at all. 

"You, too, Roger—don't hurt her, okay?" Tony pleads with Steve. "She was just protecting me. I know you have questions—that's why I came back here, to talk to you. But don't hurt her, please. None of this is her fault."

Steve lowers his wand halfway, cautious. Tony, satisfied that Steve isn't going to launch a spell into his back, turns around fully to face the animal.

It—or she, Steve supposes—lowers her head into Tony's outstretched hands, and makes a cooing sound, closing her eyes in tender moment of trust.

"It's fine," Tony murmurs. "You're fine. He's not going to hurt you. Or me, or any of us."

The creature ruffles then refolds its wing. Its body is snakelike, and its face is that of a bird's. Both its scales and feathers have an absolutely beautiful iridescent gleam to them.

"That's... an occamy," Steve breathes, astounded.

"Bingo," Tony confirms. "Check out the amateur magizoologist. HEY, DUM!"

Before Steve can be offended, he notices that Tony's pivoted, directing his shout toward the lab door. The tea-making robot, apparently summoned from Tony’s office, rolls out onto the balcony.

"Give your sister a hug," Tony directs DUM-E with a flap of his hand. "She's a little on edge."

DUM-E makes a beeline for the occamy, who shrinks obligingly to the same height as the robot— _that's right_ , Steve remembers, _they're size shifters_ —and curls her neck around its long arm. The robot flexes its claw, seemingly happily, like this is a thing that happens often.

 _That_ was what DUM-E’s motion had reminded him of on the first day he met Tony. And presumably, that explained the movement he saw in Tony’s lab that he couldn’t account for—the occamy making an appearance, and then shrinking down to a size too small to be seen.

Tony gestures at the occamy. “U, meet Roger. Roger, this is U—like the letter.”

U untangles herself from DUM-E and, making herself smaller still, ascends to drape herself around Tony's shoulders, like a living scarf.

"C'mon inside," Tony invites Steve. "We should talk. I'll make you tea, Roger. If that is, in fact, your real name."

As relieved as Steve is that he's not actually facing a hydra, it doesn't explain much of anything, least of all Tony's casual attitude. Doesn't he realize the seriousness of the situation?

"No," Steve demands.

"It's not?" Tony asks brightly, sounding relieved. "Thank god. That would have been awkward, dating someone named _Roger_. You never really struck me as a Roger," he muses.

" _No—_ " Steve spits, frustrated. "I mean, _stop_. I am not going _anywhere_ until I get some answers, Tony. You better have a damn good explanation for all this, or you're still under arrest—and I'll add posession of illegal creatures to the list of charges," he wags an accusing finger at U, who squawks and snaps her beak.

"Fine, fine. What do you want to know?"

Steve takes a deep breath. Where to start?

"Who do you work for?" he asks, scowling.

Tony looks baffled. "Rhodes Industries...?"

"Cut the nonsense, Tony. What wizarding organization? Or country, for that matter? Is it Russia? Somewhere in Eastern Europe?"

"What?"

"Are you undercover? If you are, it's not for FAB—I have clearance to access files for almost all our undercover agents, and you're not in there—"

Tony raises his eyebrows, his mouth a soft "O" as realization dawns on him.

"FAB—the Federal Auror's Bureau?" he says, recognizing the acronym. "You... you think _I'm_ a wizard?"

"You _are_ one," Steve argues, getting incensed. Who else knew what an auror even was, let alone about the Bureau? "Who the hell are you working for, Tony?"

Tony... laughs. Laughs, and laughs. He folds at the waist, overcome by it. He has to wipe tears from his eyes.

Steve vision is practically crimson at this point. "Stop it. This is _not_ funny, Cerrera!"

"I'm sorry," Tony sighs, not sounding the least bit sorry at all. "You just... you have no idea...how much I would have _loved_ that when I—You thought I was—" He lets off another peel of hysterical laughter.

Steve marches over to Tony, gripping the fabric of Tony's undershirt.

Tony finally stops laughing. "Hey!" he protests.

["Answer me! What do you know about the explosions? Are you Doom, Tony? Are you?"](https://68.media.tumblr.com/ceff1d4e12f040f1fdcbf37fd31cbe1d/tumblr_ork1vueRax1sqw779o2_1280.jpg)

"What are you—hands _off_ , big guy," Tony wriggles out of Steve's grasp, shoving him away. "Look," he says more calmly, holding up his hands.

The gauntlets and the boots make a whirring sound; metal panels slide open, and Tony removes the gloves from his hands, handing them to DUM-E's waiting claw, and steps out of the boots. Finally, he pops a catch on the helmet and pulls it off of his head, tucking it neatly under his arm.

"Unarmed, okay? Not a flight risk. Literally. And I’m answering your questions, though I hope the rest of them aren't as ridiculous."

Tony sighs again, but this time the sound is heavier, more resigned.

"I don't know what a 'Doom' is, at least not in the way you seem to mean it. And I don't have anything to do with the explosions. I was investigating them, the same as you."

"So who are you—"

"I'm not working for anyone, okay?" Tony insists. "Just myself. And I'm not a wizard. I'm not magical at all."

Before Steve can protest that that's impossible, Tony cuts him off.

"And yes, somehow I know about aurors, and occamies, and magic, and _all of it_. I'm not lying to you. Isn't it obvious what's going on here? What I am?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not to me, it isn't."

Tony sneers. "I'm a glitch. A skipped-gen."

Steve blinks. What does that mean?

"A fizzer?" Tony tries again. "That's an old, old word for it—I don't know anyone who uses that one anymore."

 _What?_ Steve knows what a fizzer is. He was called that a _lot_ when he was a scrawny young thing, before his powers manifested, before the war.

But—that can't be right, can it?

"A non-magical person born to wizarding parents," Tony explains. "I know what the kids used to call it on the other side of the pond," he adds bitterly, mouth forming a flat line. "What they used to call _me_. I'm a _squib_ , okay?"

Oh, god.

Steve... says nothing. He hadn't considered that was what Tony could be at all. 

"Yeah," Tony says, tension simmering in the rough bass notes of his voice. "Now you're getting it. I'm not a murderer, or a bomber, or _anything_ , because I literally couldn't be. Those were magical blasts, and we both know it. So maybe stop trying to arrest me and _listen_ , all right?"

A whistle sounds from inside the lab.

"C'mon, _dummy_ , kettle's on."

U snorts, seemingly in derision, and curls closer to Tony's neck. Tony picks up his jet boots, and turns, padding barefoot into the lab.

It's possible Tony was talking to the clawed robot, who follows dutifully behind him, but Steve has a feeling he probably wasn't.

* * *

Steve jogs into the lab after his date.

"Tony," he calls, "Tony, I'm—"

Tony steps around a metal partition, two Rhodes Industries logo mugs in hand.

"—an ass?" Tony says, offering one of the mugs to Steve.

Steve looks bashfully down at the mug as he takes it. "Yes," he admits. "And so, so sorry."

Tony shakes his head. "It's fine."

"It's _not_ ," Steve insists. "I was so concerned about catching the killer, and I didn't think—I _know_ you, and I know who you are—I should have trusted you—"

Tony pulls a metal stool away from one of the work benches and sits. Steve feels a nudge next to him, and sees that DUM-E has pushed up one for him as well.

"You've known me for all of three weeks. And I acted fishy—I admit, the flying breadsticks were probably a bit much. But I wanted to impress you," he admits. “Plus, hey—” he holds up the garment he was wearing before when he was flying. “Invisibility cloak. Not a normal nomaj thing.” He tucks it into a drawer carefully.

“Not a normal _wizard_ thing,” Steve adds, still impressed. “How did you—?”

“Flexible LCD film projecting live images recorded from intrapixel microcameras,” Tony says nonchalantly. “More reliable than demiguise fur—trust me.”

“I do,” Steve says sincerely. “I do, now.”

That, of all things, seems to make Tony blush. He blinks, changing the subject.

"Anyway, it's not like yours was an uncommon reaction. Glitches—squibs, whatever—" Tony winces, like even saying them himself, the words still hurt. "It's not like we get a lot of recognition in wizarding society. We’re mostly forgotten about. Everyone hopes it'll never happen to their kids." He shrugs. "Not everyone gets to do magic."

That's true, Steve supposes. But most non-magical people don't have to know there's a whole other life, a whole other world of possibilities they're missing out on.

Squibs are unique. They grow up with magic, have a front row seat to see everything they'll never have. Some even continue to try learning magic later in life, convinced they're late bloomers. Those dreams almost never pan out.

"Are you still... involved? In the magical world?"

Tony shakes his head again. "Not really. I mean, I read the Conjurer, I keep up with big events—especially stuff like this explosion business. But if you mean, do I hang out with people who remind me of what I can never be?" he sips his coffee. "No, not on the regular."

Steve feels something in his chest twist.

"So _I_ —" Steve frowns. "I reminded you—"

"No,” Tony reassures him, voice a little hoarse. “It wasn't—isn’t—like that with you. I figured you were a wizard—no offense, but you knew less about defense contracts than just about anyone I'd ever worked with at RI—and, ah, the Olive Garden thing kind of clinched it. But you never made me feel less-than. Maybe for a minute out there on the balcony, I guess—”

“—again,” Steve cringes, “ _really_ sorry about that—”

“But it’s kind of flattering. You thought I was doing real magic, y’know? And if it’s not clear, I still think you're incredible, Roger—or… whatever your name is. Hey,” Tony squints, smiling. “If it's not destroying some MACUSA code word level intelligence, could you tell me what you're actually called?"

"Steve,” Steve tells him plainly. “Steve Rogers.” It feels good to say out loud, not to lie anymore.

“That’s… it? That was your elaborate cover? Really?” Tony chuckles. “Your parents were big Captain America fans, huh? Didn’t know wizards knew about him. Was one of them a muggle—er, sorry, nomaj?”

Steve frowns. “No, they were both wizards. Sorry, what? Big _who_ fans?”

“Oh, just a coincidence, then? That’s… weird.” Tony bites his lip, looking puzzled. “That was the name of this character in these nomaj comics I used to read. I think he was supposed to be for kids in the forties and fifties—kind of a war propaganda thing. Hang on a second.”

Tony pulls out his phone, and presses the screen several times before handing the device to Steve.

“Here,” he presents a colorful image on the screen. “Steve, meet Cap. I got ‘im in both physical and digital format. He’s… kinda my favorite.”

Steve pinches and zooms in on the picture. It’s drawing of a man in a red white and blue outfit. Steve has seen some over-the-top robes in his day, but this takes the cake. It’s so tight around the character’s rear end—how did nomajs not get embarrassed wearing things like that?

He finally looks away from the character's bright clothing to see his face. He's struck by how much it looks like, well, _him_ —the resemblance is uncanny, really.

"This is..." he whispers.

Tony walks around to stand beside Steve as he inspects the image. "Yeah," he agrees. "You and he kinda look the same. I noticed that, too. I, uh," he crooks an eyebrow, hesitating. "I might have a type."

Steve uses his fingers to push the picture around. It can't be more than simple luck, he thinks, until he pans to the left and sees... Bucky.

He's wearing those funny little tight shorts, just like the Captain character, only Bucky’s are over loud red tights. But the double breasted uniform jacket and red gloves look _exactly_ right. He's the same age Bucky was, too—he has a long nomaj rifle instead of a sniper wand, but it's unmistakably him.

He swipes back to to the Captain. The character has a shield, he notices now—it appears to be an actual object, though, unlike Steve's spellshield. It's completely opaque, and also painted in red, white, and blue—it’s a little much, Steve thinks, and would have made quite the target in combat—but that's definitely meant to be his shield.

They're fighting a man with a red face in a green jumpsuit, adorned with a peculiar logo: a skull with several snakelike tentacles extending out of it.

"And that," Tony points out, "is the Red Skull, the leader of Hydra."

"Hydras have multiple heads, not multiple arms," Steve frowns again.

"Well, sure," Tony reaches in and pushes on the screen, moving the focus to the title of the issue. "And Grindelwald was ultimately in charge of Hydra. But this was written by a nomaj, not a magi-historian."

The author's name moves into view, and it catches Steve's eye:

Written and drawn by Kirby Simonson.

Steve knows that name. He knew that _man_.

Simonson was a nomaj private he'd fought alongside in France. Simonson would draw little doodles—he and Steve had an artistic bent in common—and Steve would bring both their sketches to life with simple spells.

Steve drags his finger on the screen to the left, and the digital "page" obligingly flips over.

He sees images that are vaguely familiar, a shred of truth in each of them: a sickly young man being transformed into a superhuman fighting machine. But instead of Solstice, the project is called Rebirth, and the physician leading up the whole impossible procedure is named, fittingly, Erskine.

He remembers explaining his own origin to disbelieving nomaj soldiers on that mission with Simonson, thinking there was no harm in telling the tale. It made everyone laugh, and boosted morale. The nomajs all had to be obliviated anyway, after the fighting stopped, so why hold back?

Steve had always thought it was sad that his new compatriots would have to have their memories wiped so fully. He genuinely liked them. He knew, at the time, that some of the top brass would be allowed to keep their remembrances intact, contingent on the promise that they would keep the secrets they found out about. More recently, Steve learned that they were the ones who would go on to form W.A.N.D.D.

But an entire generation of nomajs on the front line who knew about spells and magic was simply too much for MACUSA to bear. They all had to be made to forget.

It was one more reason that Steve, after his resurrection, hadn't bothered to look up what happened to anyone he knew during the war—most of them wouldn't remember him, anyway.

Apparently, though, some traces remained in this one soldier's vivid imagination, and made it out onto the page.

"This... this is me," Steve whispers.

Tony laughs. "I know, right? Same name. Super weird."

"No," Steve shakes his head, voice gone taut, expression entirely serious. "Tony, I fought in the war. World War II, I mean. I... I'm..." he shrugs. "I'm Captain America. I guess."

The name sounds strange to him. He hadn’t been particularly famous during the war—Project Solstice had been successful, yes, and he had been part of an elite fighting squadron, sure. But all the details has been classified. Besides, he was just doing his duty. And _certainly_ didn’t represent a whole country. He didn’t even represent all the _wizards_ in the country.

He supposes nomajs are a bit more patriotic when it comes to their taste in heroes.

A shadow falls over Tony's expression. "What are you—? You hadn't even _heard_ of him five minutes ago."

"No one ever called me that… But I knew Kirby Simonson. He got the idea from me. What happened to me... It's all in the comics."

"No," Tony says, adamant. Increasingly, he sounds as angry and incredulous as Steve did out on the landing.

It's Steve's turn to be taken aback. Why can't he believe Steve? It's a lot to take in, sure. But Tony grew up around magic. He has to know how powerful it is, how long lasting its effects can be. Anything is possible. Death is not always the end when it comes to spellcraft and those who wield it. Surely Tony has to know that.

" _No_ ," Tony repeats even more forcefully. He paces, setting his coffee mug down on a workbench. "Captain America... He was transformed with science. He's an achievement of biology, okay? Erskine was a geneticist. And he took Steve Rogers, and he used the serum to make Steve as strong on the outside as he was good on the inside. That's how the story goes. That's the power of _science_."

 _That's his hero_ , Steve realizes, feeling his heart break for the second, or maybe even the third time today. _That's his favorite story._

One about the triumph of ingenuity. One that has nothing to do with magic.

And Steve is ruining it for him.

"Captain America wasn't even real," Tony scoffs, waving a hand. "And besides, you're way too young to have fought in World War II."

"There was a spell," Steve explains softly. "Just a hardening charm, something like a first year might learn, but amplified to cover a greater area—and I got turned into stone. I was on a secret mission. No one knew where I was. I was trapped for over seventy years—"

"Stop it, all right?" Tony puts a hand to his forehead, seemingly pained, and holds his other hand up and out, as if to shield himself from Steve's words. "Just stop it—"

"Sorry, Tony— I didn't mean to—" Steve stands up from his stool, clutching the empty mug awkwardly. He should have just kept his discovery to himself.

Should he just... leave? No, he can't—he still has so many questions for Tony—but he's caused so much hurt already. He doesn't want to make it worse.

"He meant _everything_ to me growing up,” Tony goes on about Steve’s fictionalized counterpart. “Everything. I don't think you understand."

Tony walks back over to his stool and slumps down on it, staring blankly into the middle distance.

DUM-E rolls over and flexes his claw at Steve. Steve hands the robot his mug, and sits back down.

"Maybe not," Steve agrees. "But I'd like to. If you want to tell me about it."

Tony looks up at him searchingly, like he's trying to decide if he can trust Steve with his secrets. Steve had thought it would be the other way around, when the time came.

Whatever look Steve has on his face must be enough to push Tony over the edge to a decision, because he glances at DUM-E, giving the bot a wan half-smile.

"Put some more water on, DUM. This could take a while."

* * *

"So, you know how I said my dad had a business?"

Steve nods.

"That was true. He was kind of a big deal in the magical community."

Steve racks his brain as he sips his tea. He can't think of any important figures in the wizarding community with the last name Cerrera, either in wand manufacturing, or government services, or even entertainment for that matter. But then again, he hasn't been in the twenty-first century for very long. He was gathering moss at the bottom of a lake when Tony's dad was a young man, so it's not like Steve has the most extensive frame of reference.

"His name was Howard, like I told you. Howard Stark." Tony lifts his chin the direction of Steve's jacket pocket. "Take out your Tee-Dub." He pulls a face for a moment. "You... have a Tee-Dub, don't you? They told you about those when they de-stone-ified you?"

Steve gives him a playful scowl, but does has he's told, taking the mirror out of his pocket. "Who am I summoning?" he asks.

"No one," Tony tells him. "Look in the corner."

Etched in the bottom of the mirror is a logo Steve had never paid much attention to, but focusing on it on it now, he can see what's printed there plainly.

Under a swooping arc, the line of flight made by some kind of magical bird, it looks like, is the word—or rather, the name—in all capital letters: _STARK_.

“Your dad—?” Steve asks.

“—stabilized the spell, made it so you could summon more than one person, and prepared it for mass incantation,” Tony explained. “He was a natural born wizard. But even he knew he couldn’t have done it without the help of his W.A.N.D.D. colleagues. Yeah,” Tony nods at Steve’s surprised look. “The Tee-Dub was a military project at first. Back in the early eighties, there was a huge push to explore the scientific properties of magic—a real renaissance period. For a time, people actually wanted to understand what made magic _work_. Some of my dad’s best friends were chemists and physicists. _And_ ,” Tony smiles sweetly, “one microbiologist in particular.”

"Your mom," Steve recalls from their earlier conversation at the restaurant. He can barely believe it's the same night. They must be coming up on midnight, but Steve doesn't feel tired at all.

"Doctor Maria Cererra," Tony confirms. "She was brilliant and kind. Her work was focused on, as Jarvis would say, ‘wee beasties’," he mimics a Scottish accent once again, raising his hands to his neck to scoop up U; she coils up happily in his palms. "But she loved other animals, too. Kinda ran in the family."

"Jarvis?" Steve asks Tony.

Tony walks U over to his desk, and sets her down on a crumpled up sweatshirt. "Our, uh, groundskeeper in Scotland. I... may have fibbed before and said he was my uncle. The one who liked tea? He's a little... unusual."

U gives a little yawn before tucking in her beak and her single wing, forming a perfect little loop with her body, and preparing to nod off.

"Then again," Tony smiles first at the sleepy occamy, and then at Steve, "So am I. _Anyway_ ," he continues, "When they married, some of the more... old school members of the Wizarding community took it poorly."

He mimics a the shaky, deep voice of an old man. "She was a _nomaj!_ It was a betrayal of our _culture!_ I don't know how it was in your day, but people can be really prejudiced even now. They actually told her, to her face, when she was pregnant with me, that her mudblood baby would never amount to anything."

Steve feels the muscles of his neck clench, and he makes a fist involuntarily. How could anyone be that cruel?

"My dad wasn't exactly... a kind man, but he didn't tolerate anyone speaking to my mother that way, so he did what he thought he had to do: he quit MACUSA, left the day-to-day operations of Stark Enchantments to his brother, Edward Stark—with a clause that I had the right to inherit the business when I got older, of course—and moved us all to Europe right after I was born. He thought it would quiet the chatter about our family." Tony laughs. "I think it only made people more curious. One of the foremost magifacturers of the day just quits? How often does that happen? And to say people were curious about _me_ was... an understatement."

He laughs again. "You probably won't believe this, but there was a little while there where I think people were more excited for Tony Stark to make his public debut than they were for Harry Potter."

Steve squints. "Sorry, who?" He thinks he met an auror by that name during a conference at the end of last year—a slim man with dark hair and oversized glasses—but Steve had just been turned back from stone a few weeks before, and he hadn’t paid particular attention at the time. "Should I know who that is?"

Tony guffaws. "Uh, never mind. The point is, there were paparazzi around pretty much constantly while I was growing up. They wanted to see how magical Howard Stark's offspring really was, if the pumpkin had rolled far from the patch."

Steve winces. "What did they say?"

Tony stretches out his hand in a curve before him, as if highlighting a newspaper headline. "STARK BOY IS A WUNDERKIND! Surely the next great wizard of our age!"

" _What?_ " Steve did not see that twist in the story coming.

Tony sits back down, still grinning. "Earlier tonight, you thought I was a wizard pretending to be a muggle for nefarious reasons, using magic disguised as tech. And I thought that was breathtakingly hilarious, because for the first eleven years of my life, I did exactly the opposite. I made science look like magic. Same as with the flying bread tonight." He shrugs. "I think I always knew what I was. I knew I was never..."

He trails off into a huffing half laugh, like he's composing himself to keep from getting emotional. Steve starts to rise from his seat, and Tony waves a hand, telling him to stop.

"I couldn't make things... happen, like I was supposed to. I tried saying the magic words, and thinking about it really hard, and believing in it with all my might… Nothing ever worked. But then, one day, my mom got a care package from one of her old nomaj colleagues from her school days. It was a beginner's electronics kit—they had no idea about Howard being a wizard, or that I was supposed to be one, too. And that day it was like... it was like I found magic. _Real_ magic. I added a little electricity to wires and a servo, and I could make things come to life. I'd attach a rotor and a motor to an object, and I could make it _fly_. I'd mix the right chemical compound, and suddenly it would glow! It was my special hobby, and I was _amazing_ at it."

Steve feels his heart swell up with conflicting emotions—joy, at the idea of a young Tony having this pivotal moment of discovery, and a deep sadness, for what Tony was surely about to tell him next.

"I told myself it was just another way of being magical, but I think I knew that was a lie. I hid my talents—or lack thereof, depending on how you look at it—and made it look like I was just another young wizard on his way to greatness. Another magical Stark, ready to take on the world. I even made my _parents_ think I was a spellcaster. Jarvis was the only one who knew the truth, and bless his heart, he never told anyone... Until it all came out in public."

"When did that happen?" Steve asks apprehensively.

"When do you think?" Tony asks with an awful, awful grin. "When I went to school, of course."

Oh, no. Steve, who was bullied mercilessly growing up, understands exactly how mean children can be to one another. "Where did you go?"

"Well, I told you we lived in Scotland..."

For once, Steve fully understands the reference Tony is making.

" _No_ ," he flat out denies.

Tony chuckles. "Yeah. Oh, _yeah_. It happened on the big stage."

When Steve was young, he didn't get to go to wizard school. Not everyone did, then—hardly anyone in his neighborhood could afford it. He dreamed of going to the Chicago School for Sorcery, and he knew a few people who went to that one school in Massachusetts, the one that had since been rededicated as the Center for Native Magical Studies.

He had known an alchemist from Beauxbatons who was part of the French resistance, as well as a Russian broombomber who had gone to Durmstrang; she’d been one of the famous Night Witches.

But he had never known anyone who went to the oldest, and maybe the best, wizarding school in existence. The school where Merlin himself was trained.

“You went to—” Steve says, awed, before Tony cuts him off.

“Better than that, Steve. I was _expelled._ From _Hogwarts_.”

* * *

Tony tells Steve the whole story—how he tricked the staff at Ollivander’s in Hogsmeade, how he bought everything in sight at Honeydukes because he knew he might never get to return, how he even snuck a sip of butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks.

His plan for making the most of his brief time at Hogwarts had been ingenious for a child his age, in Steve’s opinion—which really only proved that Tony’s calling had been engineering all along: he clearly had a gift for planning.

The Sorting Hat, Tony explained, is something of a final authority on squibs—no non-magical person has ever fooled it before, regardless of how extensive the trickery employed was. Some preternatural ability bestowed by the Hogwarts founders, Steve suggests, and Tony rolls his eyes at that, calling it a rather “hand-wavy explanation” (which strikes Steve as slightly odd; typically, spells were performed by waving your hands—wouldn’t “hand-wavy” mean ‘powerful’?)

In any case, eleven-year-old Tony had done his homework. The Sorting Hat was where all previous squibs had gotten tripped up, so Tony pretended to be ill during the initial Sorting Hat ceremony. That way, he could audit classes for a week, taking notes furiously in every Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration class he went to, and blaming his poor results on a faulty wand.

Finally, just before that “stupid ratty chapeau” (Tony’s words) could give away Tony’s secret, Tony announced that he was bored with school and made a rather grand and dramatic exit by attaching tiny rockets to roller skates he wore, concealed under his robes, and shot out of the Great Hall at lightning speed, much to the astonishment all staff and students present.

Something incredible happens, though, as Tony is describing it:

Tony laughs.

Actually laughs about it. A real, genuine, full-throated laugh, and it’s so infectious, Steve can't help but join in. It's the same kind of unadulterated joy as the moment they shared in Time Square, snickering over the look on Kyle's dad's face.

Their cackling echoes so loudly in the lab that it actually wakes up U, who puffs up to twice the size she was when sleeping, and gives an irritated snuffle.

The whole ordeal must have hurt Tony so much... To find out that you would never, ever be the thing you'd planned on becoming for the entirety of your young life. Steve could only imagine how he would have felt if Solstice simply hadn't worked. If he hadn't become a battlecaster, would he have just gone home and started a Victory mandrake garden? It would have been humiliating.

But here Tony was, laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face, like he was glad to have someone to tell the story to after all these years. Steve was more than happy to be that person—he’d like to continue to be that person for Tony, for as long as Tony would let him.

"My dad didn't yell,” Tony recalls, calming. “At the time, I kind of wish he had. He didn't speak to me for about a week. I think it was less the squib thing than it was how much I embarrassed the family by showing off. I was really worried about what my mom would say, though."

"What did she say?"

Tony smiles fondly. "The same thing she always did. She just scooped me up in her arms, held me tight, and said, 'Hey, _you_.'" Tony's voice goes soft and warm when he says it, channeling a bit of his mom, trying to show Steve something of her kindness. "And I said 'hey, _you_ ,' back, like it was a normal day. She never mentioned it at all. I worried for nothing."

Steve's eyes dart momentarily to the occamy, who is back to her normal size and once more snoring softly on Tony's sweatshirt, her odd name suddenly making a lot more sense.

"I'm... mostly over it, I think," Tony reassures Steve. "I mean, my family was well off, and I’ve done okay for myself. Only one real regret, to be honest. I didn't get to do the one thing I wanted to more than anything."

"What was that?"

"Fly," Tony says, eyes alight.

"Well, you're obviously doing that now."

"The armor?” Tony asks brightly. “It's a work in progress." 

He hops off his stool and paces away. Steve assumes he's going to get more coffee, but Tony stops at the far end of the workbench from where U is resting, and grabs a keyboard. It's not connected to anything that Steve can see. He's no expert, but doesn't there have to be a screen of some kind—?

Then Tony makes a gesture, and an image appears, projecting upward from the workbench surface in a flash, floating in midair. For what feels like the hundredth time in twelve hours, Steve has to remind himself that Tony isn't a wizard.

It's a suit of armor, but it's unlike anything Steve's ever seen. It may well have been inspired by the medieval knights' attire on display at Hogwarts, on some level, drawn from a memory from Tony's childhood. But it's so much sleeker than those must have been, the lines so much cleaner and more precise. 

And it might be made of metal the same as Doom's armor, but that's about all the two have in common. Seeing the it now, Steve can't imagine how he had ever confused the two.

Tony's armor is elegant, clearly designed for him and him only, the contours of Tony’s body reflected in the armor’s distinctly lean shape. The helmet, gloves and boots Tony wore earlier are all present, but they suddenly make so much more sense in the context of the full design. It was like having only read the words to a song on paper, and then suddenly hearing it sung aloud for the first time: the boots and gloves were poetry before, but the armor was symphonic.

"Holographic schematic," Tony informs Steve, reaching for the image and physically spinning it around—Steve tries not to gasp as it turns; is this what nomajs are like when they see a spell for the first time?

"I'm trying some different color schemes," Tony says hesitantly, biting his lip and making another gesture. "What do you think of this?"

A glimmer rolls over the silver armor hologram, and suddenly it's covered over in rich carnelian with amber accents, just like the back of Tony’s calling cards.

"It's beautiful," Steve whispers, staring up at the image, awed. "It's perfect for you." He laughs. "In more ways than one."

Tony turns back, looking quizzically at Steve. "Hmm?"

"I know what house you would have been sorted into," Steve grins.

"What?" Tony looks back and forth between the hologram and Steve, until Steve's meaning dawns on him. "Oh, I hadn't even thought of that. I was going for sort of a... phoenix color scheme, you know?"

Steve crosses his arms and surveys the red and gold armor and its creator again. "That also works."

Tony shakes his head. “No. Really? Gryffindor? You think? I always kind of thought—not that I’ve thought about it in years, mind you, but—I assumed if I was anything, it’d be Ravenclaw or Slytherin.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve chides him softly, “You’re a flying knight in armor who wants to save the world. What does that sound like to you?”

Tony hooks his fingers in his belt loops and shuffles in place, for once not offering a witty quip in response, seemingly unable to take in that Steve just implied that he was ‘brave at heart.’

Well, Steve could keep telling him until he got the message.

"Oh, uh, right the… Captain America thing,” Tony dives back into his story awkwardly, apparently desperate to change the topic.

“We moved back to the States, I changed my name, hoping maybe the press would lose interest—they did, eventually. Mom used some of her connections to get me into the best technology focused schools. I graduated early from M.I.T.—that’s sort of… Hogwarts for nerds, I guess. Then my folks died, and things got … bad for a while. That’s a story for another day, but… Not long after that, I found Cap. The comic books, I mean. It was just what I needed at the time. And it wasn’t _just_ the science thing. It was...”

Tony fidgets, snapping his fingers, brow furrowing as he searches for the words.

“He didn’t give up. Everyone said he wasn’t really a soldier, that he could _never_ be one… But that didn’t stop him, you know? He found a way. I don’t know if that’s what it was like for you, really, but… he made me not want to quit, made me think I could make a real difference. He made me who I am. That’s why I’m doing this,” Tony cocks his head to the side, indicating the armor.

Steve takes in the sight of Tony, illuminated by the golden glow of his creation. He’s somewhat more solemn than before, his secrets laid bare, but he’s still radiating that infectious, profound hopefulness that Steve has come to love about him.

In that moment, Steve wants _desperately_ to be the man in Tony’s comic books. Oh, he already is, he supposes, in some ways. But he wants to inspire Tony himself, as he truly is, and be as good and kind and strong as the man Tony read about in his darkest moments.

Steve knows he’s been a shadow of who he once was, pulling away from everyone who has tried to care for him since he woke up. Everyone except Tony, who managed to break through Steve’s defenses. He’s so, so grateful, and he fervently wants to give Tony something in return.

 _Captain America_. He lets the title roll through his thoughts. It’s a lot to live up to, but he thinks he can do it. For Tony, he can.

He’d better change the topic, though, before he finds himself getting maudlin.

“So, the armor,” Steve asks. “You’re using it in your investigations? What’ve you found so far, about the explosions?”

“Glad you asked,” Tony answers, eyes aglow. He punches a few more commands into the keyboard, pulling up some figures on the holoscreen next to the armor.

He walks Steve through his data: his calculations on the force of the blast, his readings on the traces it left behind, and the subtle differences between each incident.

“I think they’re experimenting,” Tony offers, flipping through projections of images from each site. “The readings change over time, so that means they aren’t able to replicate the effects consistently. The procedure—whatever it is they’re trying to do—isn’t successful yet. Or at least, not as successful as they would like.”

Steve shudders at Tony’s choice of words, even though his hypothesis is sound. Who could think any of this was a ‘success’?

“Unfortunately, I still have no idea what caused it,” Tony sums up his findings glumly, banishing the pictures and other files from the holoscreen with a wave of his hand. “I’ve never seen this kind of magic before.”

Neither has Steve, but he does have something familiar to work with. “Any luck with the runes?”

“The what?”

“The runes carved into the floor, at the last site.” Steve pulls his wand out, and recreates the Ogham glyphs by drawing them in the air. “The letters are Irish, but the words are—”

“—English,” Tony breaks in. “Probably. The frequency of the letters seems right. Did you—?”

“—decode it?” Steve finishes for him. “Not yet, but I have an idea what the key might be.”

Much as Steve had reached for his own tool of choice, Tony retrieves his phone and captures a photo of the runes, which shows up immediately on screen. Steve describes the jist of the code he and the other soldiers used during the war. Thirty seconds later, Tony has a script running, attempting to auto-decipher the message.

“We’ll see what we come up with, he says, satisfied, stepping away from the keyboard to let the program run.

Steve is overcome with joy—both at the progress they’ve suddenly made on the case, _and_ at how well he and Tony work together. He leans in, giving Tony a quick, tender peck on the lips, and lets his cheek rest against Tony’s.

“We’re a pretty good team, you and I,” Steve sighs happily.

“I was thinking the same thing, Cap,” Tony whispers in Steve’s ear, making his heart leap up at the use of his old nickname. 

Tony pulls back suddenly, regarding Steve with a contemplative expression—something like nervousness flits across his features.

What could Tony possibly have to be nervous about now?

“Steve—do you think—would you—?” He stops himself, biting his lip.

“What is it, Tony?”

Tony scrunches his face in thought before pacing a few steps away from Steve and then back again, mumbling to himself, almost chanting; Steve _thinks_ he catches the words ‘daring, nerve, and chivalry’ in there somewhere.

“Okay,” Tony exhales weightily, as if he’s just decided something important. “All right. What the hell, here goes: I said I wasn’t working for anyone—and that’s true—but I am working _with_ someone. A few someones. I’ve got one more thing to show you.”

Tony turns to the computer terminal one more time, and enters a passcode of some kind, and then motions again. The armor and the deciphering script disappear, revealing… 

A three-dimensional model of several figures in bright costumes, each suspended in a dynamic pose. There’s a young woman in red who’s clearly casting a spell, hands enveloped with a magical energy tinged in the same color as her outfit. A young man in green with a shock of white hair leaps beside her… Steve stares at each miniature frame in turn; the only one that’s familiar is Tony, soaring above the others in his signature red and gold armor.

“Steve, this is my team,” Tony introduces proudly. “Tony Stark and the Super Stark Friends.”

Steve looks up at Tony at that. “What?”

The left corner of Tony’s mouth curls downward. “Bad name? Okay, okay, it’s a work in progress. But whatever we’re called, they’re…my friends. They’re all sort of magical outcasts. Like me.”

Tony beams at Steve, absolutely radiating delight.

Steve is… stunned. Other people are already working with Tony? Other _magical_ people?

Struggling to comprehend what Tony’s just told him, his focus darts from figure to figure in the projection.

“Is that a pixie?” Steve asks, pointing to a very small being: seemingly human, but with wings growing out of its back.

“No,” Tony corrects Steve joyfully. “That’s a Jan.”

Steve hasn’t heard of that type of magical creature before. “Like… a djinn?”

“No, that’s her name: Janet VanDyne. Her family has some fae heritage, as it turns out, but it took science to bring those attributes in her DNA out.”

Tony points to the girl in red. “That’s Wanda. She is actually a witch. Her powers are unstable—she had a fairly traumatic childhood—but her hex abilities are amazing. That’s her brother, Pietro—and that’s Clint—Jan thinks we should be called the Avengers. Which is a pretty good second choice, I have to admit—"

Tony goes on about his friends, and Steve can barely process what he’s hearing. He had no idea Tony had been working on the investigation with other people. He doesn’t know why it surprises him so much, that Tony would have friends—other magical friends at that—but he can’t shake the surge of jealousy spiking within him. He thought what he had Tony had was special, unique.

 _Stop being ridiculous_ , he tells himself.

“This is…” he trails off, at a loss for words.

“...completely awesome, right?” Tony fills in. “But you know what would make it even better?”

Tony spins toward Steve, and without warning, backs him up against the worktable. He pushes himself forward, positioning his body between Steve's legs. Tony leans in, grabbing Steve's jacket lapels, and nuzzles Steve's nose with his own fondly.

"Captain America," Tony whispers gleefully. "C'mon, Steve, what do you say?"

Steve finds himself hesitating. He had dreamed of working with Tony when he thought Tony was a wizard. Even just moments ago, Steve had been imagining trying to convince Stoner to hire Tony directly as a W.A.N.D.D. employee, possibly even offering Tony a job by their next date.

He didn't expect Tony to have a proposal for him.

What were these other people like? Who was the team leader? What were they trying to achieve as a group? How could Steve continue working at FAB and also be... what was it? An Avenger?

“I... don’t have the shield anymore. If that influences your decision at all,” Steve says, attempting a casual tone of voice.

Tony leans back, mouth open in shock. “The shield was real?! Oh, god, I can't believe I didn't ask you about it before. Was it made of adamantium? I've heard about these new adamantium wand cores—"

"It was a spellshield," Steve says, a little sheepishly, afraid of disappointing Tony, dashing still more dreams about his childhood idol. "It only worked with a magical artifact—the Vambraces of Erskinus—and those were destroyed."

It hits Steve, then: if he's the only full-blooded wizard in the Avengers lineup, what will they think of his fighting style? Will he be the odd one out? Or resent him?

Tony squints, and slides one hand over his opposite forearm illustratively. "Vambraces—like, magic wrist bracers?" He chuckles, incredulous, searching Steve's face for some hint that he's joking. "You’re Captain America _and_ Wonder Woman? How are you even _real_?"

Tony cards a hand through his hair and shakes his head before settling back down against Steve's chest. "All right, fine. Magic wrist bracers. I can work with that," he resolves.

"Tony," Steve says soothingly in his date's ear. "You're the most talented person I've ever met, but you can’t just replicate a thousand year old magical artifact in your lab in a week."

Tony nods against Steve's shoulder, considering, before looking into Steve’s eyes. “That’s fair," Tony agrees. "I mean… it’d take at least two."

He grins impishly, and leans in again, brushing his lips against Steve’s, pleading seductively.

"Come on, Steve. Say you'll avenge with me. Please?"

Steve glances down and away, dodging Tony’s kisses. “I... can talk to my boss at FAB," he tells Tony, hearing his own voice go a bit thin with indecision. "Maybe we—the Bureau—could work with your team. Might not be impossible to convince Stoner, since none of you are, strictly speaking, full-nomajs."

Tony straightens up at that, putting some distance between himself and Steve.

"Clint is. I showed you Clint—he has a bow and arrow? Long story, but—"

"You… you told a nomaj?" Steve murmurs, stunned. "About magic?"

The shadow of a scowl overtakes Tony's expression; Steve can feel Tony tensing in his arms.

"It's not illegal," he says, not answering Steve's question directly. "So what’s the—oh," Tony face falls, his delight from mere moments ago draining away. "I’m not a wizard. That’s it, isn’t it?"

He takes a few slow steps back from Steve, detaching from Steve's person completely. He looks Steve up and down, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. "You don’t think I should get to tell anyone. I don't have skin in the game, so to speak."

"No," Steve protests, but words fail him mid sentence. He shuts his mouth, and draws himself up to his full height, neck and shoulder muscles tensing in anger.

It _is_ different for Tony, he thinks to himself. If a nomaj found out about Steve’s abilities, they might lock him up—or worse. It’s happened before. Magic has been kept secret for a reason.

“I don’t do magic,” Tony continues, vitriol coming off him in waves, “so I don’t get the privilege of deciding who and who isn’t in your club—”

“It’s not just that—”

“Then what is it, Rogers?”

"I _thought—_ " Steve stops, realizing how much he's raised his voice, and tries again, his tone more measured. "I thought... you were only supposed to tell someone who you were... _serious_ about."

"You think I'm not serious about this?" Tony points toward his computer console, matching Steve's volume. "About my team?"

“No—I meant—” Steve makes a fist, feeling his stomach do a flip flop as he tries to explain himself.

“— _romantically,_ ” he finally ekes out, abashed.

“I’m… not romantic with _Clint_ ,” Tony says, defensive. He walks to the end the table to retrieve U, who’s been woken up by the shouting. “Is that the only thing you think is important?” he challenges Steve, draping the occamy about his shoulders.

“I wasn’t even the one to tell him,” he clarifies. “His on-again-off-again girlfriend, who’s a witch, did. But thanks for jumping to that conclusion.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve leans back against the workbench, his hands sliding over his face momentarily before he lets them fall to his sides. This is a mess. He sighs. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll talk to Stoner Monday—”

“What?” Tony takes another step backward, as if trying to propel himself away from Steve’s distasteful words. “NO! God, no. FAB would never approve of us. They’ll actively try to shut us down—if they even deign to take us seriously, that is. We have to stay off their radar.” He scoffs. “It’s not like we’re going to be working with the NYPD, either.”

Steve cranes his neck back in surprise. The nomaj police force? What does any of this have to do with them? 

“Tony,” he asks, eyes narrowing, deadly serious. “Who exactly is going to know about your team?”

Tony lifts his chin up. “Whoever needs to be saved,” he says, his voice even, expression every bit as grave as Steve. “Muggles, wizards, house elves—anyone. Everyone.”

“You’re talking about breaking the International Statute of Secrecy!” Steve shouts, throwing his arms up.

“I guess I am,” Tony fires back.

“Tony,” Steve huffs, exasperated. “You can’t—I can’t—I’m an auror, Tony, it’s my _job_ —”

“So quit,” Tony pleads, reaching for Steve like he’s at risk of slipping away. “Work with me. Do you know how much good we could do? Haven’t you ever thought about that before?” He counts off the possibilities on his fingers. “Wizards can conjure food in an instant, apparate across the city in the blink of an eye, regrow bones and heal wounds! Did you ever stop to think how many people we could help? We—the whole wizarding community—we can do better than this!”

“Nomajs wouldn’t understand,” Steve maintains, voice simmering with anger. “They’ve always tried to hurt us—they’re scared of us—”

“Because you’re scary powerful! You can wipe their _minds_ , Steve! That’s a terrifying power to have!”

“ _I’ve_ never done that,” Steve spits back, unyielding.

“But you’ve never _stopped_ it, have you?” Tony needles him. “I’m doing this—forming the Avengers—with or without you. Are you going to report me? Am _I_ going to be obliviated?”

“No—” Steve sputters. “Of course not. But you can’t just decide—”

“I can.” Tony stands his ground, staring Steve down. His voice changes; his words are careful, deliberate, as if he’s quoting a speech.

“‘I see someone who needs help... And I _help_. You think it's a weakness… But you're wrong. I don't measure people's lives... I save them.’ Do you know who said that, Steve?” Tony asks.

Steve doesn’t know, not for sure, but—he pictures a man who isn’t quite him, dressed in red, white and blue—he can make a pretty good guess.

Tony just stares at Steve, disappointed. Even U seems upset.

God, Steve’s made a mess of everything. How did they even get here?

Tony looks away toward the windows at the far end of the room. Orange light is creeping farther across the balcony, spilling into the lab as the sun climbs higher.

“It’s late—or early—and I’m tired. I need some time to…” Tony sighs, eyes flicking upward as he searches for the words. The fight suddenly goes out of his frame, fatigue pulling him down into a slumped posture. “I just need some time.”

Tony turns away from Steve, collecting both their mugs, ignoring Steve entirely.

“Tony, _please_ —” Steve begs.

“That’s your cue to disapparate,” Tony informs him coldly, not looking him in the eye. “See you Monday, Steve.”

Steve stands unmoving, speechless, watching Tony until he walks behind a partition wall, and out of Steve’s line of sight.

As he twists his wand in the air, preparing to disappear from the lab as he was told to do, Steve is hit with the uncomfortable sensation of all the air leaving his lungs—and he knows it’s not just the feeling of disapparating affecting him.

He knows Tony was right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: IT'S DONE!! READ READ READ!

Steve knocks on Sam’s door. For the third time.

There’s no still response.

Either Sam’s not at home—he wasn’t even in good enough shape to walk, let alone fly or apparate, the last time Steve saw him—or he’s in a state where he can’t come to the door.

This is very, very not good. Steve wants to curse himself for not coming to check on Sam sooner.

He is, frankly, exceedingly lucky he didn’t get splinched on his way here. He wasn’t even sure where he was headed when he left Tony’s lab. He just knew he needed to get away— _Tony_ wanted him to get away—and at the last second, he thought of _outdoors_ , and _high up_ , and _alone_ —and seconds later, he found himself at the Top of the Rock, looking out across the city, as the sunrise painted each skyscraper in glowing citrus hues, the last of the night dissolving into mild purple grays, the stars winking out of view for the day.

He’d like to say the beauty and the solitude helped, but it honestly just made him feel worse.

It was uncomfortable to consider, but Tony had a point—had a lot of points. He’d never thought of MACUSA’s secrecy as being hurtful to people—nomajs, squibs, other magical peoples—but when you got down to it, if you had the power to help and turned away, wasn’t that almost as bad as inflicting the hurt yourself?

Tony probably thinks Steve is some pure-blood fanatic now after the way he acted.

Steve didn’t trust Tony’s instincts about other people, didn’t think he had a claim to his own place in the wizarding community. Did that make him just as bad those wizards who ridiculed his mom? Or the ones who made Tony feel ashamed for not being able to do magic?

He couldn’t see past his own prejudices, couldn’t let Tony in—can’t seem to let anyone in—Bobbi, Carol, Sam—

SAM—

Steve was going to visit Sam last night, before everything with Tony started—he’d gotten him _soup_ , for Merlin’s sake—

Steve shuts his eyes without a second thought, and pictures it: the peeling paint and ugly carpeting of the hallway of Sam’s apartment, rushes back into the void again, arriving momentarily at his friend’s door.

His lingering hurt and frustration from his argument with Tony is dissipating as seconds tick by in between his knock attempts.

He tries again… And again, nothing.

It’s not something he likes doing, even on the job, let alone to a good friend, but right now it’s necessary. Steve takes a deep breath, and apparates directly inside Sam’s apartment.

As soon as he reappears on the other side of the door, Steve takes in the space around him. It’s dark and silent inside; Sam isn’t there. Dammit.

Steve moves quickly and quietly through each room, alert, wand at the ready, but he finds nothing out of the ordinary—until he reaches Sam’s bedroom.

Steve finds himself assaulted by the furious beating of wings and claws. He probably should have expected that.

“Whoa, Redwing, whoa!” He shrinks back from the doorframe, covering his face with his hands, trying to calm the bird. “It’s just me.”

(Distantly, Steve considers that he may need some new friends who have fewer dangerous pets in their homes.)

Redwing glides down, landing on a side table in the hallway adjacent Sam’s bedroom door, but continues to flap frantically. He seems as disturbed by Sam’s absence as Steve.

“What do you know, Red?” Steve asks, not entirely certain the falcon will be able to communicate anything of use to him.

But Redwing sails down the hall, back toward the front door, grabbing something off the ground with his claws before returning to Steve.

Steve examines the paper the bird retrieved; it’s a Daily Conjurer, the edition from two days ago. Sam hasn’t been here in days.

That meant someone knew who where he lived was responsible for his disappearance, had maybe even caused this sickness, had been drugging him.

It could be someone with access to staff files at MACUSA… or someone at Rhodes Industries.

Rhodes employed hundreds of people, but there were only maybe a dozen he and Sam interacted with regularly. He should go back to RI, see if he could use his system access to get a list—

At the sound of a chirp, Steve looks up at Redwing; maybe the bird found something else.

But Redwing just cocks his head to the side quizzically.

If the falcon didn’t make the noise, then…

Steve pulls out his mobile phone, just as it makes another beep.

 _2 text messages from Tony Cerrera_ , the screen reads.

Steve’s heart skips a beat—has Tony forgiven him? He doesn’t deserve it, not yet—he really has to apologize first—but if Tony wanted to reach out to him first, he certainly wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to make amends.

 _Hey, you,_ the first message reads. _The cipher script finished running_ : _**WIZARDS ARE WEAPONS**. Not super helpful, unless I’m missing something. Still need some time. Talk soon._

The rush of excitement Steve feels reading Tony’s words—particularly the familiar greeting—is tempered by the nausea he feels at discovering the solution to the cipher.

It’s vague, sure, but it seems to vindicate Steve suspicions: the killer is using obscurials, or something very like them—how else would you turn a wizard into a weapon?

Steve presses his phone’s screen to open the other message, to see what else Tony wanted to say.

It’s much longer than the first message, and even at a glance, almost certainly not from Tony.

_We meet again, Captain Rogers. Tony is quite right: Wizards are weapons, indeed. I wonder what kind of an explosion your friend Sam will make? If you’re inclined to find out, you’ll find the old passage to the muggle City Hall rail station not as abandoned as it once was._

_Come prepared to meet your Doom._

Steve nearly drops the phone. He had fought against the idea that had been plaguing him since he woke up, but nonetheless, it seems to be true: he isn’t the only survivor from the cave-in.

Doom is back.

He’s back, and once again he is holding people Steve loves hostage.

Steve has to do better than last time. He has to save Sam and Tony. But he can’t do it alone.

* * *

Steve apparates directly back to Tony’s lab, pacing back and forth the second he’s fully corporeal again. He reads Doom’s message over and over, trying to think of what to do next.

If he learned anything from his seventy years as a stone statue, it’s that it’s not just himself it might get killed if he runs off half-cocked and without backup.

But calling another wizard clearly isn’t an option, either; anyone magical he brings with him is just a liability—one more person to be turned into a bomb. If one wizard being… detonated… could bring down a small building, a unit of aurors could take out a city block. Steve can’t risk it.

He racks his brain trying to think of someone, besides Tony, whom he can call that isn’t magical, that he can also trust. Someone who won’t be overwhelmed by the situation.

Steve looks around the room, not really seeing, trying to come up with a solution—when he glimpses Tony’s RI logo mug from before.

Maybe someone with an entire military technology company at their disposal?

Steve scrolls through the contacts in his phone until he finds _Rhodes, Jim_.

If Rhodey wasn’t thrilled with Steve before, he’s going to hate him now.

Good thing they both care so much about Tony.

Steve takes a deep breath as he hears a repeated ringing sound, followed by the “click” he has come to associate with nomaj calls reaching their destination and being answered.

“Rhodes—” he says frantically before the other man can get a word in.

“Who is this—? _Stevens?_ What the hell? What on earth makes you think four in the morning is a good time to—”

He pauses, and for some reason, Steve thinks he’s pulling a face on the other end of the call. “Does this have something to do with Tony?” he asks, voice dropping half an octave.

“He’s in trouble,” Steve says without preamble.

“He usually is,” Rhodes tells him, sounding unimpressed. “If you broke up with him, I swear to god, Stevens—”

“No—” Steve blurts out, then wonders if they are, in fact, broken up. They _did_ fight. Can someone break up with you after only one date?

None of that is important now, he tells himself. Tony can break up with him if he wants to—just so long as Tony is safe and alive.

“Rhodey,” Steve barrels ahead, hoping he can still call the CEO by the nickname offered earlier, “I need you to trust me.”

Steve inhales, buying himself some time. He’d thought quite a lot about how to tell Tony he was a wizard before their first date. But how can Steve break it to Rhodes? And without losing valuable time trying to convince Rhodes that everything he’s saying is real?

Before Steve can even begin to explain the situation, Rhodes breaks in. “Is this some stupid wizard thing?”

“ _What?_ ” Galloping gryphons, how many people did Tony _tell?_

 _Trust Tony_ , a voice in Steve’s mind echoes. _You know what happens when you don’t trust him._

“Listen,” Rhodes continues. “I told him not to get involved with you magic folks again—I sure as hell don’t want to. I didn’t even want to be in this W.A.N.D.D. thing he suggested we apply for.” 

There’s a crackle on the line as Rhodey huffs into the microphone. “You can’t just… call _your_ people to handle this? Someone with special powers? Who might have, I don’t know, already had their coffee and isn’t still in their pajamas?” he grumbles.

“I can’t. Any other magic user I get involved just puts Tony at greater risk.”

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he won’t be able to get Rhodes to come around on this. He’s still going to need a way to fight Doom. He should look for an alternative form of backup.

He stalks through the lab, searching behind every chair and workbench.

“Even you?” Rhodes asks.

“Even me.”

Finally, Steve spots them: DUM-E and U, curled up together. Steve kneels before them, cradling the phone against his ear and extending a hand to U. She sniffs at him, wary.

“Then why are _you_ going?” Rhodey asks with a hint of disdain in his voice, just as U pecks at his fingers. He probably deserved that.

“Because,” Steve starts, quietly channelling every ounce of distress he’s feeling into his tone as he waits patiently for the occamy to respond. “There’s a chance this could end up with someone getting murdered, and there is no way in hell I am letting Tony— _or_ my partner—get hurt. I’m not leaving them alone, you understand?”

Slowly, gently, U wiggles her way onto Steve’s outstretched arm, while Rhodes pauses, taking in Steve’s words.

“Why didn’t you say how serious it was before?” he asks. “Where should I meet you?”

“No time,” Steve informs him, walking toward the desk drawer where he saw Tony deposit the invisibility cloak hours before. “Tell me where you’re at, and I’ll come get you. And, uh, Rhodey?”

“Yeah?”

“You know how you said you had something… bigger than a shovel?”

“Uh-huh?”

Steve turns the cloak over in his hands, until he finds a small black switch on its underside. He flicks it, and watches as his hands virtually disappear. 

“Any chance you could bring that with you? We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

* * *

“Since this thing is technically RI property,” Rhodes whispers from behind Steve, both of them crouching beneath the draped film of the invisibility cloak, “I’m telling Tony he has to make the next one bigger.”

Steve resists the urge to sush him—Steve already cast a dome of silence over them, but old habits die hard—and he can’t deny that Rhodey has a point.

Even with the scaly winged member of their party shrunk down the the size of a weevil and hiding in Steve’s pocket, it’s an extremely tight fit for the two of them and their various supplies under Tony’s cloak.

They shuffle as quickly as possible through what is now the nomaj bicycle storage room in the basement of the Woolworth Building, about eighty feet and one very powerful warding charm below MACUSA’s headquarters. Part of Doom’s diabolical plan, no doubt—if the rest of the Bureau finds out about this, they’ll be walking into a trap. Taking out both a seat of magical government and a portion of its service arm in one fell swoop would certainly make Doom’s goal of Wizarding World domination easier, not to mention that hundreds of nomajs would be caught in the crossfire.

It only serves to underscore Tony’s point from earlier: the two worlds are too intertwined, and it’s no use pretending they’re not. _Everyone_ needs their protection.

They approach the old passageway to the subway tunnel, sealed off with concrete by the nomajs decades ago. Steve checks in every direction: there’s no sign of Doom out here, or of anyone for that matter.

Sliding his wand between the folds of the cloak, Steve casts a spell, and the concrete splits and begins to slide apart, shaking the earth beneath their feet as it moves.

“Shit,” Rhodey curses, awed.

Once the rumbling stops, a darkened entrance way gapes before them.

“You ready?” Steve twists awkwardly behind him, doing a final check with Rhodes before they make their way into Doom’s chamber.

Rhodey taps on his chest, producing a knocking sound. “Top of the line RI Carbon Fiber and Vibranium body armor. I don’t know how it’ll do against spells, but it’s the best I’ve got. Are _you_ ready?”

Steve points his wand at himself, and light spills over his form, transfiguring his suit into auror robes. He closes his eyes, focusing on a few new details. The double-breasted uniform jacket is still a familiar navy, but Steve lets red and white thread stitch itself into a delicate pattern of stripes on the sleeves and at the hem. On each shoulder, a silver-white star embroiders itself, nearly glowing under the cover of the cloak.

Steve knows what he’s fighting for. He wants Doom—and Tony—to know it, too.

“I am now,” he tells Rhodes.

It’s almost entirely dark inside—giving Steve awful flashbacks of the cave system containing the hydra he fought—but if his other senses are to be trusted, it sounds like he’s in a plain concrete room. Just on the other side of it, Steve surmises, is the old City Hall station; Steve had seen it as a child, its graceful swooping curves and leaded skylights burned into his memory. Doom must be creating his own gateway from that side of the passage.

He hears Sam and Tony before he can see them.

“Cererra? You there?” Sam asks. His words echo from the opposite side of the room, about twenty feet from Steve’s location if he had to guess. He sounds half-dead. They’ll have to rush him to Hecate Medical as soon as possible, but he’s alive, and in the meantime all Steve can think is, _Tony, please answer, please be alive_ …

There’s a ragged cough, and Tony answers Steve’s desperate wish. “I’m here.” Tony exhales slowly. “I really _hate_ magic sometimes.”

“Did you feel that? The rumbling.” Sam asks. “I think we have company.”

Steve breathes a sigh of relief, just as Rhodey stands all the way up, calling out frantically.

“Tony!” he shouts, starting to stand all the way up. If there was more light in the room, their feet would be exposed.

Steve puts a hand back, wrangling Rhodey by the shirtfront, yanking him back down and hushing him in earnest this time. The silence charm won’t work if Rhodey leaves the relative safety of the cloak. “Not. _Yet_.” he warns.

Steve understands Rhodey’s desire to get Tony out of here—god, does he ever. But they can’t sacrifice the element of surprise.

Steve’s caution proves to be well-founded; the room begins to shake again. Sure enough, it sounds like the opposite wall is shifting this time. Steve uses the covering noise of the room reshaping to shut his own door behind him.

New footsteps echo in the room as the shaking dies down, and a man’s voice incants a _lumos_ _duri_ charm.

A ball of light shoots up from the center of the room, and hovers there, illuminating the passageway. It’s much as Steve had thought: mostly featureless, walls of concrete bordering them on all sides.

At the far end, Steve can see Sam seated on the floor, barely keeping himself upright, bound with a nasty looking incarcerous spell. It looks similar to the one Bucky had been trapped with before.

Tony, on the other hand, is shackled to an exposed pipe running up a wall to Steve’s right. The cuffs look mundane in nature, but no less formidable, constructed of heavy bands of silvery-grey metal, looped around the piping with a weighty chain.

A man whose face Steve can’t immediately see is hauling another unconscious figure with a black bag over his head by the scruff of his shirt, dragging his body limply towards where Tony is being held.

Their captor deposits the new hostage near Tony, cuffing him to the pipe well.

As the light ascends, casting a wider glow over everything in the room, Steve can make out the man’s profile as he works.

It’s… Reed Richards? The biologist is in league with Doom? He _had_ been acting oddly lately, but it’s still surprises Steve to see him here, doing a madman’s bidding.

“Richards,” Sam pleads with their captor, probably not for the first time. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

“He is _so_ fired,” Rhodey informs Steve, incensed.

“What the wizard said,” Tony agrees with Sam. “Reed, whatever you’re doing, whatever he’s offered you, it’s not worth it. We can still get out of here, all of us, just wake that guy up, and—”

Reed unceremoniously rips the bag concealing the unconscious man’s face away, to reveal...

“...Other Reed?” Tony’s voice shifts up in pitch, as he stares in confusion. He blinks at both their kidnapper and his new fellow prisoner, one a mirror image of the other.

The first Reed stands and pulls a small vial from his pocket. He uncorks and tosses it to Tony, as if in answer.

“What is… _Oh_.” Tony scrunches up his face.

The acrid smell of Fluxweed and Knotgrass reaches Steve’s sensitive nose just after it hits Tony’s, and Steve realizes what he’s seeing.

That’s polyjuice potion.

Not-Actually-Reed turns, pacing back toward the center of the room, his true features revealing themselves as he does so. He stands with his back to Tony as his frame fills in, musculature heavier than Richards. His eyes shift to a darker brown, nearly black.

But most shockingly of all, his skin begins to shrivel and crack, his face twisting into some of the most horrific patterns of scarring Steve has ever seen. Patches of his hair fall out, floating to the ground, and his nose recedes, leaving a jagged peak of torn skin and cartilage around a gaping hole.

A snap of his black, angular wand, and his signature armor materializes on his person. A green cape appears in mid-air and floats down to curl about his shoulders.

Finally, a faceplate fades in, covering his terrifying visage. “I’m so glad you’re finally awake, Stark. I’ve can’t wait to work with you—as myself this time.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you’re the Doom guy Steve mentioned,” Tony quips.

He pivots back to face Tony again. “The one he accused you of being?” he asks pointedly. “Yes, quite so.”

Steve feels a hot flash of shame in his chest. He’s been such an _idiot_.

“I guess I should be offended,” Tony goes on, brash as ever. “Your armor _does_ suck.”

Doom crosses to the corner where Sam is captured. Sam begins struggling anew, but he makes no progress.

“It’s not as elegant as yours, true,” Doom agrees with Tony’s assessment, while pulling Sam up to standing, yanking at the magical bonds. “But it protected me through the course of my experiments, so it has served me well.”

“Stevens—Rogers, _whatever_ —are we going to _do_ something?” Rhodey asks panickedly.

“Hold,” Steve orders him. “We have to know what he’s planning. We have to know what we’re up against.”

Hauling Sam behind him with one hand, he raises the other, drawing a sharp line from the floor to the ceiling with his wand.

The room shakes again, and up from the ground a structure begins to rise. A circular metal platform surfaces first. From it, curved panes of glass ascend, reaching up to the room’s ceiling, creating a cylindrical holding cell of some kind. It looks like a fusion of technology and magic, and it crackles with energy, seemingly unstable.

A section of the glass retracts, and Doom shoves Sam forward, into the chamber. Before the dazed and bloodied wizard can react, the glass reseals itself, locking him in. The incarcerous charm that bound him falls away. He bangs on the glass, yelling, to no avail.

Another metallic structure rises just in front of the contraption, a sort of console, or podium, Steve surmises. The pedestal at its top has a depression, a space for some kind of object to rest.

Doom sheathes his wand in the folds of his folds of his cloak, then extends his hand further into the fabric—it doesn’t so much as ripple as his hand disappears beneath it; perhaps he’s using an extension charm on the garment; Steve shudders to think of what else Doom might be hiding.

When he finally extracts his hand, what he pulls out is an orb, about four inches in diameter, its surface glistening in a sort of craquelure pattern, bringing to mind broken glass.

Doom holds it aloft triumphantly, presenting it to Tony.

Steve gasps involuntarily. It’s not made of glass at all, but shards of metal—a very special metal—

“The Vambraces of Erskinus,” Doom announces. “Or least, what’s left of them. One of the most powerful artifacts ever created, capable of channeling untold amounts of magic. I’ve used several conduits over the course of my trials, but this one could be the key to my success. I suppose the good _Captain_ ,” he says the title like he’s snarling behind the mask, “may have mentioned them to you. But he’s not worthy of them.”

He stalks toward Tony, the crumpled ball of Steve’s former weapon gripped tightly in his fist. “ _We_ are.”

A smug smile spreads across Tony’s face. “You’ve been spying on me for _how_ long? And have been working alongside me for at least a week? Didn’t even you bother to bug my lab?” He laughs sardonically. “How are you not hip to the fact that I’m a squib, Doom? That is some _shoddy_ scheming. What the hell kind of evil wizard are you?”

Either Tony’s sarcasm is driven by the fact that he doesn’t know how powerful Doom is, or he is _damn_ good at covering how terrified he is. Steve is laying odds it’s the latter; he stands by his assessment of what house Tony belongs in.

 _Keep him talking, Tony_ , Steve focuses on the thought. _Make him slip up. Give me an opening._

“Oh, I know _exactly_ what you are, Tony,” Doom counters. “No one else seems to, though—certainly not that thick-headed auror paramour of yours.” He crouches just in front of Tony. The metal facsimile of a mouth he wears is fixed in a grimace, but his voice pitches upward, signalling a hidden smile.

“You are perfectly positioned at the intersection of technology and magic, and possess a superior mind, capable of unlocking their combined power. Rogers and I may be from the same time, but he chooses to remain in the past, while I have always looked toward the future.”

He reaches for Tony’s face, trying to brush his gauntleted hand against Tony’s cheek. The blue glow throws Tony’s features into sharp relief; he looks nervous for the first time since Steve arrived down here.

“We can make that future together, Tony. We have so much in common.”

Tony twists his head away, cringing, trying to avoid Doom’s cold metallic touch. “We have _nothing_ in common—”

Tony opens his eyes, his head now swiveled in Steve’s direction. For a moment, Steve thinks he sees a flicker of recognition in Tony’s eyes, but in the dim wandlight, it’s hard to say for sure.

Steve risks fluttering the front of the cloak just a bit. It’s Tony’s own tech: he’s got to be able to recognize it.

_I’m here, Tony. I’m getting you out of this._

Before Tony can react, Doom roughly seizes his jaw in his hand, forcing Tony’s gaze back in his direction.

“You deny it, but you know it to be true,” Doom argues vehemently. He pauses, seemingly calming himself, easing his grip on Tony’s face, sliding his fingers down Tony’s chin. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter, almost seductive.

Steve balls his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles crack; Doom is going to _pay_ for this.

“You’ve said it yourself: you hate magic. But if I may offer a small amendment, I think what you actually hate is wizardkind. They’ve humiliated you, made it clear how _worthless_ they think you are, tried to dictate what you can and cannot do. They’ve held you back, held you _down—”_

Tony bares his teeth at Doom and yanks his arms forward, banging his cuffs against the pipe in a show of disgust.

“ _Steve_ is going to _put_ you down, you murdering piece of—”

“DON’T,” Doom stands, shouting again, “say his name.”

 _That’s good_ , Steve thinks. _Make him uncomfortable, knock him off his game._

“That pathetic dolt wouldn’t dare to explore abyss as I have. I’ve charted netherrealms beyond imagining, probed the places where the oldest magic dwells,” Doom rants. “He could _never_ acquire power like mine. And if appearances concern you...”

Pulling away from Tony, Doom brandishes the orb, gripping it harder. It glows faintly.

Steve see the muscles of Doom's neck tense. He throws his head back in pain, and as he does, Reed stirs, releasing an anguished cry. Tony twists back and forth helplessly, watching both of them howl.

Scars and burn marks bubble up on the skin of Reed's face as he and Doom simultaneously writhe in pain. Finally, they both go still.

“...they can be altered easily enough,” Doom finishes.

He removes his mask. It dissolves into smoke, spiralling up into nothingness.

Steve is loathe to admit it, but Doom is... beautiful. His features are sharp, his skin unblemished. He's extraordinarily handsome. Steve isn't sure if his true face looked like this once, or if it's a ruse, a glamor.

Reed, on the other hand, is a deformed mess, driven back to unconsciousness by the pain.

Steve really, really hates this guy.

“All my life I have pushed the conventional bounds of magic,” he boasts, voice crisp and clear, no longer hindered by the mask, “and have been shunned for it. We are outcasts, you and I. I, too, stand apart from rest of the so-called community. I respect your mind, your gifts. In fact, I want to offer you another one."

He pauses, favoring Tony with a charming smile. "How would you like to be a wizard, Tony?”

"You're insane," Tony tells him. "That's impossible."

"Ah, that’s not a refusal I hear, is it?" Doom gloats.

He rises, crossing back to the massive contraption enclosed around Sam.

"It may be impossible now, perhaps. But not for long. Not if we work together."

He places the orb on the pedestal, and it begins to glow brighter.

And then Steve sees it: while Doom is focusing on the containment chamber and starting whatever ritual he’s prepared, Tony looks precisely in Steve’s direction…and winks.

“Doom,” Tony calls out to the dark wizard, letting his voice waver slightly. He sounds less arrogant—curious, even. “How… how would it work? You giving me powers?”

Doom turns away from the pedestal, back to his favorite prisoner, overjoyed at this sudden change of heart.

"I thought this offer might be too sweet to resist,” Doom’s lips curl into a smug smile. “You see, since returning to the living world, I’ve spent my time absorbing every ounce of magical potency I could, by every means available to me. But it still wasn’t enough. I needed a new source. I searched and searched, until..." he gestures toward Sam. "I realized there was power all around me, trapped in the bodies of those who did not deserve it. Extracting a wizard's magical essence is a delicate operation. It hasn't always gone to plan. But even my failed experiments have proved... interesting."

The explosions. The explosions weren't the goal, they were just a side effect, Steve realizes. All the ability of a fully grown witch of wizard—ten times more powerful than an obscurial, which could only be found in adolescents—drawn out of them, and released into the atmosphere. Of course it backfired. Of course it was deadly.

Doom waves a hand over the orb, it pulses with light; sparks dance over the contraption in response.

Sam scrambles to his feet, moving to the center of the tube, trying to stay away from the magical energy now cascading over the glass panels. "Hey," he shouts desperately. "HEY!!"

"Rogers—" Rhodey hisses. “He’s going to _kill_ your friend—”

Steve takes a deep breath, and glances back at Tony, who is currently wearing a version of his Planning Face.

“We hold,” Steve tells Rhodes.

“You see, Tony?” Doom’s holds his hand aloft above the orb. “There’s no one whose skills are better suited to help me complete the extraction device, and no one more deserving of the reward. You’ve always wanted magic for yourself; it can be yours now.”

Tony bites his lip, as if he’s struggling with the decision.

“I… can’t,” Tony shakes his head. “Not like this.”

“You’d be saving your friends’ lives,” Doom beseeches Tony, sweetening the deal. “Help me adjust procedure, make it safer, and they can live on without their abilities. Think of what we could accomplish together!”

He raises his free hand in a fist, exultant, and takes a half step away from the orb, back in Tony’s direction.

Steve tenses—this could be it—

“Get ready,” he warns Rhodey and U.

“Man, I’ve _been_ ready,” Rhodey bristles.

Tony lowers his head, murmuring, making a show of wrestling with the choice he’s been offered. “If.. if only…”

Doom takes another step, almost out of casting range of the orb. “Yes…?”

“If only…” Tony looks back up at Doom, and _laughs_. “If only you could see your _face_ , Tin Woodsman. God, you are the most gullible—I can’t wait until S _teve_ , my legendary hero of a boyfriend, gets here and wipes the floor with you—”

“SHUT UP,” Doom tries to order him. “You think I’m afraid of Rogers?”

“Do I detect a clanking noise?” Tony goads. “Are you shaking in your armor, Brave Sir Robin?”

Doom roars, and stalks away from the orb, crossing the room halfway, back towards Tony.

“He doesn’t _care_ about you, Stark, or he would already be here! I invited him, challenged him! _That’s_ how little I fear his arrival.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Tony punches the name again, “is going to kick your sorry ass all the way back to the forties, even without a Time Turner—”

“ _Stop this!_ ” Doom howls, throwing his arms in the air, enraged. “He _clearly_ doesn’t find you important enough to risk his own sorry skin for. He is weak, blind! Who is _he_ to judge us?”

“I think,” Tony grins, “you’re about to find out.”

“ _Now!_ ” Steve cues Rhodey.

Steve stands, tossing the cloak aside, and fires a blast of _stupefy_ at Doom with his off-hand. He doesn’t even bother to use his wand, raw emotion erupting from him as a powerful attack.

At the same time, Rhodes un-slings a massive firearm from his back. He settles it on his shoulder, peering through the sight, aiming, and launches a rocket at the dark wizard.

Doom’s armor takes most of the impact from both blasts, but he’s knocked back, momentarily stunned by his attackers.

“I don’t judge lives, Doom,” Steve informs him, raising his wand. “I _save_ them.”

Doom wastes no time in retrieving his wand and firing back; he blasts a _cruciatus_ curse at Steve, who dodges it ably. Doom turns his attention to Rhodes.

Doom raises his free hand, and makes a fist, squeezing. Rhodey’s gun crumples, the twisted heap of unusable metal teetering off his shoulder and landing on the concrete.

Thrusting his wand forward viscously, Doom lunges, shouting, sending a beam of sickly green light directly at Rhodes.

Steve leaps in front of the nomaj, and counters Doom’s curse with a blue bolt of his own. The spell energies clash, each canceling the other out, locked in mid-air.

“U,” Steve grits out, pushing back on Doom’s spell with every ounce of strength he can muster. “Get Sam! Rhodes—”

“On it,” Rhodey assures him, rushing toward Tony.

He barely sees U, still no bigger than a billywig, as she darts out of his pocket. Seconds later, he hears the _whoosh_ of air being displaced that usually accompanies one of her astounding size changes.

Steve spares a momentary glance to his left. U is now over sixty feet long, her massive undulating body curling up around the containment chamber. She tightens her grasp, squeezing for all she’s worth.

Eventually the glass, even bolstered as it is by Doom’s spellcraft, cracks unders the strain, shattering into a million pieces. U shields Sam with her coils, allowing the shards to rain down, bouncing off her scales as they fall to the ground.

Doom cries out in frustration as his work is destroyed before his eyes. He breaks the standoff with Steve, bringing his wand down hard, slicing his spell beam in an arc at Steve’s shoulder. The magic scorches through Steve’s uniform, tearing at his flesh, and he cries out in pain, falling to one knee.

Doom lets loose another spell from his wand; the broken glass fragments shimmer, turning to bits of metal, each one sharp as a knife’s edge. Flicking upward, he sends them hurtling through the air toward the occamy, swarming her, biting into her sensitive scales.

U shrieks and shrinks, making herself tiny again, floating down to safety in between the savagely sharp pieces. She’s spared the worst of the cuts, but doesn’t dare to grow again, seeming to fear injuring herself further. She slithers to a far corner of the room and tries to hide.

Steve grits his teeth through the pain, clutching his wounded arm; he forces his hand upward just enough to cast a flattening charm at the metal fragments winging through the air above his head; they lose their mass, all at once becoming thinner than paper. The shiny bits of foil flutter to the ground, shimmering and twisting in the air like confetti, strangely festive in the midst of the violence.

Steve surveys the situation. Rhodey is still struggling to free Tony and Reed, U is badly hurt, and Sam is shaken and unarmed.

Hurt as he is already is, Steve is the only one left. He can’t let that monster escape again. He’s going to finish this, here and now, but he needs to get the others to safety first.

“ _Emancipare!_ ” he casts at Reed and Tony. A golden beam strikes their cuffs, and they fall to the floor. He turns, focusing on the far wall where he and Rhodey entered, and casts a _portica_ charm, creating a doorway once more.

While Steve is freeing the nomajs, Doom lets loose another curse. “ _Cruicio!_ ” he screeches.

The spell snaps out toward Steve, with a burst of red light and a sharp whip-like crack.

Steve doesn’t have time to dodge. He’s hit full on, and pain racks his entire body. His vision whites out and his mouth hangs slack; he can’t even hear himself scream.

He’s rocked with a second wave of pain as he thrown by the force of the spell; he lands in the corner of the room, feet from the pipe where Tony was being held moments ago. Ears ringing, he winces and tries to shake off the tearing feeling in his joints. He looks up and to his left, and sees Tony.

Tony is standing, his shackles at his feet, looking horrified. He attempts to close the distance to Steve, his lips forming Steve's name. Rhodey blocks him bodily, trying to guide him to the door.

Steve tries to call out to them, to tell them to go, but can’t seem to get the air to his lungs fast enough; the pain is just too much. Rhodes is pulling Tony along already. They’re going to make it out; _good_.

He has to stop this, once and for all. For Bucky. For Sam. For Tony.

Doom makes a motion to cast again, and just beyond his shoulder, Steve spies the orb on its pedestal, nearly forgotten in the fight.

Of course. That could change course of the fight, turn the tide in Steve’s favor.

Before Doom can curse him again, he follows Steve’s line of sight, and has the same realization.

“ACCIO ORB!” they both command.

The artifact flies in their direction.

It lands in Steve’s palm with a satisfying smack, just a fraction of a second before Doom can reach for it. But that’s all the time Steve needs.

The feel of the orb in his fist is familiar, bracing; it hums with power. A glow bursts forth from the fractured and refused artifact. It’s not quite Steve’s shield, with its balanced shape and elegant curves. It’s no more than a mass of pure spell energy, but it’s enough.

Steve raises the orb in his hand and brings his fist, and the enchantment, down squarely on Doom’s face. Doom topples backward, crying out.

Steve follows him to the ground, never letting up on his beating, pummeling him with punishing blows, again and again. He winds up for another—

—and Doom hits him with _sectumsempra_ , slicing at Steve’s midsection, painful lacerations ripping through his uniform jacket. Steve arches forward, torso curling reflexively in agony, while Doom reaches up, managing to get a hand on the orb. He rips it from Steve’s grasp, turning Steve’s assault back on him. He pulls the orb back, and slams it into Steve’s collarbone.

The blow Doom lands is devastating. Steve is flung entirely across the room, landing prone. He twists his head to the side, opening his eyes, to take in his position. Bleary-eyed, he scans the immediate area and sees… the door his spell created, and his friends staggering toward it, about to make their getaway.

 _No_. He can’t let the fight drift this way, into the path of the people he cares about. He has to get back up, distract Doom, keep them safe.

It’s a massive effort to merely lift himself up enough to rest on his elbows; he tries to get his feet under him, and can’t quite do it without stumbling.

Doom is already stalking toward him, the orb held high in one hand, brandishing his wand in the other.

“STEVE!” Tony yells. He’s helping Sam limp away, while Rhodes carries Reed over his shoulder. He throws an arm out, reaching for Steve. Anguish is reflected in his eyes. “I’m _not_ leaving you,” he promises.

“ _CRUCIO!_ ” Doom curses Steve again, red sparks flying. The pain is agonizing, but Steve bears it—at least Doom is still focused on him and him alone.

Steve manages to push himself away from the ground, and raise his wand arm just a few inches, barely enough to point it in Doom’s general direction. He can hardly see straight, but the orb glows brighter still, drawing his eye.

Turning the orb to stone and shattering it wasn’t enough to render it powerless before. He has to destroy it as completely as possible.

“ _Calefacto_ ,” he casts with what little is left of his ragged voice.

An orange rope of light leaps from Steve’s wand, turning the blue metal of the orb neon yellow with a fiery red-orange corona, like a tiny sun. Doom screams and drops the molten metal, but not before it sears the flesh of his hand.

The orb dissolves into a puddle on the concrete.

Doom raises his wand arm, circling it in the air, preparing the final blow; Steve knows what’s coming.

He can try to deflect Doom’s spell, and given the state he’s in, probably miss.

Or.

He can help his friends escape, give them a chance to survive.

He can be the hero Tony wants him to be.

 _I see someone who needs help,_ he thinks. _And I help._

With his last shred of focus, Steve tosses his wand in Sam’s direction. “ _Go_ ,” he orders. He hopes to Merlin Sam is well enough to apparate them all out of here. He has to be. They _have_ to live.

Doom brings his wand around, and Steve looks him squarely in the eyes, seeing the pure hatred glowing in them.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A green flash explodes from Doom’s wand, and Steve takes a breath.

Time slows down, almost like it did in the hydra cave all those years ago. But he won’t wake up this time in a world he doesn’t know, and that’s fine, he thinks. Tony wouldn’t be there in the future to greet him, so it’s okay if this is the end.

In the last seconds he has left, he twists his head again to look at his friends. To look at Tony.

And he watches helplessly as Tony wiggles out of Sam’s shaking grasp, leaping in Steve’s direction.

Sam, Reed, and Rhodey disapparate, blinking out of existence.

And Tony is calling Steve’s name as the green bolt collides with his body.

 _No_.

“TONY!” Steve screams. “ _TONY!_ ”

Tony hits the ground, his body going limp as the spell rolls over him covering him in a spider web of green light before it dissolves.

Oh, god, Tony. Why did he have to be so much braver than Steve?

Doom frowns. “I did not want to do that,” he growls. “But if he would give his life for you, he was more of a fool than I thought.”

The dark wizard winds up his wand arm again, and Steve is trying to stand up—for Tony, to make Doom pay for what he did to Tony—

—when he hears Tony’s voice say, quietly but clearly, “ _No._ ”

Tony is rising, standing up in front of Steve. Color is returning to his skin, the ashy pallor of death fading away.

It’s impossible, it can’t be—but it’s happening all the same.

Doom’s jaw drops open, his arm frozen mid-spell, dumbstruck for a moment. Then the angry resolve returns to his face and he tries again.

“CRUCIO!” he casts at the resurrected Tony.

Tony puts up a palm, holding it in front of him like a warning—Steve is reminded of when Tony used his gauntlets on Steve last night at the hotel, except Tony’s hands are bare now.

It doesn’t matter. The spell reflects off his hand, leaving him unharmed.

“No,” Tony repeats carefully.

Doom twirls his wand again, preparing another killing curse, and thrusts it closer to Tony’s face this time.

“AVADA KEDAVRA—”

Tony catches the wand in his hand. Green light pours off the wand… and is absorbed into Tony’s skin, seemingly inert.

Tony wrests the wand from Doom’s hands.

Doom staggers backward, terror reflected in his dark eyes. Tony moves forward, filling the space.

Tripping over his green cloak, Doom falls, landing flat on his back. Tony kneels down next to him, and presses a hand down firmly on the Doom’s chest plate.

The metal of Doom’s armor goes suddenly dull. His cape lays flat, enchantment nullified. Finally, the glamor dissolves from his face, his scarred countenance returning.

“No,” Tony says again, calmly, pinning Doom in place.

He looks backward at Steve, then, and holds out Doom’s wand to him.

“Can you, uh?” he asks, nodding at Doom. “Before he tries to get away?”

Steve crawls to Tony, grasping the wand. Tony lifts his hand off of Doom’s person.

Still dazed, acting entirely on instinct, Steve uses a binding charm on Doom, tying his wrists and ankles with magic, and then follows it up with a little shoving spell, pushing the madman further away from them, just to be safe.

The spells completed successfully, Steve rolls to his back, the last of his energy spent.

Tony turns back to Steve, blinking slowly. Finally coming back to himself, he takes in Steve’s condition, and darts to his side.

“Steve, god, are you okay?” Tony starts to reach for Steve’s injuries, the hesitates. His gaze darts around, he tries to find something to staunches the bleeding on Steve’s stomach and shoulder. “We’ll get you some help—hold on, okay?”

Steve softly catches one of Tony’s flailing hands, lightly squeezing his fingers, giving Tony a faint smile. “I’m holding.”

He feels like he’s been chewed up by a dragon and spit back out, but Steve can feel some of his healing power kicking in. Steve has always handled magical wounds better than other wizards since Project Solstice. He’s out of combat and relatively safe now; he’ll recover… so long as he doesn’t have to move much for a few days.

Tony’s hand is warm—not too warm, as usual; just perfect—and his pulse is lively under Steve’s fingertips.

Steve doesn’t know what he would have done without him.

“Are _you_ okay? How… did you…?” Steve trails off.

_Stop Doom? Deflect a torture curse? Come back from the dead?_

“I have no idea,” Tony tells him, getting the general idea of Steve’s question, and apparently having no better answer. He shakes his head, baffled. “Uh. _Magic_. I guess.”

He laughs, suddenly, shocked by the sound of what he just said, and Steve tries to laugh along with him—but it turns into a grimace as the gashes in his abdomen complain at being jostled.

“Distract me from the pain,” Steve requests, squeezing Tony’s hand again. “Did you tell Doom I was your _boyfriend_ a few minutes ago?”

Tony huffs a tiny laugh and drops his chin in an expression of phony timidity. “Well—it’s hard to remember—it all seems like a blur now—”

Before Steve can risk another painful laugh, the popping sound of wizards apparating fills the room, and suddenly, half of the Auror’s Bureau surrounds them.

Sam is the last to appear, Rhodey apparating along with him, sidecar style. Sam is still in rough shape, limping over to Steve’s reclining form, and Rhodey looks a little green around the gills from apparating twice in quick succession.

“I brought backup,” Sam explains, panting. He stops, shocked, when it’s clear he realizes the figure crouching next to Steve is Tony, still very much alive. “Oh my god. You’re—”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “It’s weird.”

“Whatever it is, it’s _good_ ,” Sam says. He surveys Steve’s injuries and calls over some mediwizards, who start the application of anti-shock charms and healing potions; Steve begins to feel better immediately.

As soon as Tony stands up, reluctantly taking a step away from Steve to let the professionals work, Rhodey rushes in, wrapping Tony up in a protective hug. He practically lifts Tony off the ground. Steve smiles at them, the haze of the pain beginning to recede.

“Don’t you _ever_ get kidnapped by an evil wizard again,” Rhodey scolds, clapping Tony on the back affectionately.

“No promises,” Tony squeezes him back equally tightly.

“Well, _I_ don’t want to be there next time, how’s that?” Rhodey snarks playfully, pushing himself back to arm’s length. “Not unless I get a full set of armor, too.”

“I can work with that,” Tony laughs.

Steve manages to sit up and debrief the other aurors on the situation, and warns them about Doom’s abilities as he’s taken into custody.

Resting on the floor, Tony hovering protectively nearby, he’s encircled by a swirling mass of people—Stoner congratulating Steve on a job well done, and telling him he’ll be back in the field in no-time, Bobbi telling him how glad she is he’s going to be okay, and introducing herself to Tony. Agent Ayala even brings over friend to see them—a freshly bandaged U, squealing in delight at being reunited with Tony.

Life goes on, noisy and fast-paced and irritating and wonderful.

But whenever Steve catches Tony’s eye, he feels like they’re the only two people in the room—in the world, for that matter. And that, Steve realizes, is its own kind of magic.

* * *

Steve checks the time on his phone—seven twenty-five; he’s still early—before swiping his brand new security card at the door to the robotics lab on the 118th floor. _Shiny new plastic_ , he thinks happily, having grown rather attached to the nomaj material.

He doesn’t see anyone on the lab floor or out on the balcony, and hopes he hasn’t gotten the date wrong—now that RI’s W.A.N.D.D. status has been approved, he doesn’t have to come to the office every day.

He probably still will—to take Tony lunch, and see the bots and U, and walk Tony home, and, okay, fine, just to bask in Tony’s presence. But it’s not a requirement anymore, and he’s worried losing the rhythm of a daily assignment will throw off his schedule.

He presses his phone’s calendar button, just like Tony showed him.

 _Accio Avengers,_ the meeting notification reads, and the date and time are set to now.

Where is everyone?

As if on cue, Tony walks out from the break area, spotting Steve.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he greets Steve. He does a double-take, then, raising his eyebrows impossibly high. “Uh, _hello_ there.”

Tony eyes drift up and down Steve’s body, eyeing him like he’s a sweets sampler from Honeydukes.

The other thing about not being on assignment anymore means Steve can wear what he likes to RI when he visits his boyfriend. In this case, it’s a slim fitting white t-shirt and a pair of olive khakis with brown boots. He’s not an expert on nomaj clothing yet, but he’s experimenting. So far—if Tony’s expressions are anything to go by—he’s not doing too badly.

Tony looks pretty amazing himself. He’s clad in a black t-shirt that’s just a little too short for him, and tight jeans in dark indigo that cling to the lines of his body perfectly.

Yeah, Steve thinks, licking his lips and putting his phone away. Nomaj casual wear is pretty much the best.

He can see the tiny swoosh of Tony’s hip bone peeking out just above the waist of his jeans and—

He can’t think about… what he’s thinking about. Not right now, when he’s about to meet his new teammates.

“Where’s everyone else?” Steve asks.

“They’ll be here in a half hour,” Tony explains. “When the meeting officially starts. I thought we might want a minute… you know, alone.”

Normally Steve would assume this was innuendo, Tony giving them a chance to (heh) experiment in the lab.

But he remembers something else from his calendar program: earlier today, Tony had his final physical after… the incident.

A week ago, Doom had tried to kill Tony, and nearly scared the life out of Steve in the process. Tony has seemed completely fine since then, perhaps the first person to walk away from a killing curse since Potter (Steve has been doing some reading in the interim, and yes, he does know who that is now, thank you very much), except no one can seem to explain why it happened.

“Is… everything okay?” Steve asks, trying push past his apprehension.

“Well, everyone who examined me at Mount Sinai— _and_ Hecate Medimagic Center—gave me a clean bill of health. There’s nothing... _wrong_ with me,” Tony informs him.

Steve bites his lip to keep from letting out a huge sigh of relief, especially when Tony seems so dissatisfied with that conclusion. Tony has a scientist’s mind; he always wants to dig deeper. 

“But they have no idea why…” Steve starts.

“...I’m still alive? Nope,” Tony says, popping the ‘p’.

“You’re… not a wizard,” Steve confirms. Steve has gone back and forth so many times trying to figure out whether Tony is a magic user or not that he feels a bit dizzy.

“Not a wizard,” Tony agrees. “Still can’t cast a spell to save my life. We ran _all_ the tests, believe me. But.” Tony pauses dramatically. “I can stop them. Just like I did with Doom. Levitation charm, Orbis Jinx… you name it. I can grind them all to a halt.”

Steve notices Tony doesn’t mention any of the Unforgivable Curses by name, and that’s fine with Steve. He has no desire to remember what it felt like to think he was going to lose Tony forever.

“So you’re not a…” Steve pauses. He has really started to hate _all_ the various terms for non-magical children of wizards; none of them come close to describing how special Tony is.

“Not a one-of-those either, apparently.” Tony bites his lip. “I seem to be… something else. Maybe something _new_. Reed has an interesting theory,” he adds brightly.

Reed was recovering slowly but steadily—the healers at HMC prescribed him bedrest, continual application of dittany to his scars, and plenty of chocolate. He has been having trouble with the first one; he is nearly as inquisitive as Tony, and upon arriving at a magimedical facility, he kept asking the healers on call questions about their work. Steve had heard they finally had to slip him a sleeping draught in his pumpkin juice to get him to calm down.

Tony respects and trusts Reed’s intellect more than nearly anyone else’s, so if Tony thinks Reeds idea has merit, it’s probably a sound one.

Tony jumps up to a sitting position on top of the nearest workbench. “Do you want to hear it?” he asks.

Like Steve would actually say no; he loves listening to Tony talk.

“As you probably know, nearly everything in the world is made up of matter,” Tony explains. “Similarly, the Wizarding World is made nearly entirely of magic.”

“I’m with you so far,” Steve nods thoughtfully.

“There’s also this stuff called anti-matter. It has some things in common with matter, but some ways, it’s matter’s polar opposite, too. It’s hard to explain. The most interesting thing about it, though, is it’s incredibly rare, and no one can really explain _why_. And, lastly, it’s volatile when it meets up with matter—they cancel each other out, and leave pure energy behind.

“I always just thought I was… non-magical. Lacking in magic,” he snaps his fingers, fidgeting, twitching with nervous energy. “But Reed thinks I might be… _anti-_ magical.”

“Anti-magical? Is that a real thing?”

Tony shrugs. “Dunno. But if it is, then, like anti-matter, it’s _extremely_ rare.”

“How extremely?” Steve inquires.

“ _Very_ extremely. As in, I’d be the only known case in the world right now.”

Tony swings his legs and uses the momentum to pop back down off the workbench. God, he’s excited today. Steve can’t really blame him. Being told you’re not special for years on end, only to find out you might be the only one of your kind on the planet? It’s got to be exciting. And maybe a little terrifying.

“But you’ve been around spells your whole life,” Steve considers. “You had to have been charmed before now. This never happened before?”

“Not once. But Reed thinks the traumatic nature of the curse I was hit with might have triggered it. Stress causes mutation in a number of species—usually over the course of millennia. But magic is… you know… special. Maybe it just took that one hit.”

Tony finishes strolling around the lab, finally stopping in front of Steve, encircling Steve’s waist with his arms.

“This is incredible, Tony,” Steve rests his hands comfortably on Tony’s shoulders… and notices he doesn’t feel any different. Come to think of it, he hasn’t felt differently at all any time he’s been in contact with Tony this week.

Tony stopped Doom’s power just by touching him. If Tony is somehow… anti-magical… as Reed supposes, and Steve is a wizard...

“We’re not going to cancel each other out and blow each other up, are we?” Steve asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like an idiot for even mentioning it.

“No!” Tony hastily denies. Then glances upwards, considering. “I mean, I don’t _think_ so. Probably not.”

“ _Tony_...” Steve says warily, but Tony pulls him into a kiss before he can utter another word, and Steve has the good sense not to protest that.

Tony kisses him softly, slowly, as if reassuring Steve that he’s still alive, and still himself; Steve wants to melt into Tony’s embrace, to hold onto him and never let go.

Then, Steve feels… something else. White noise fills his ears, and there’s a slight buzzing sensation against his lips. His chest suddenly feels heavy where Tony’s hand is resting. His whole body feels heavier, and the air of warmth and brightness he didn’t even know he normally felt inside suddenly becomes heavy. It’s not a bad experience, it’s just… different. He’s not exactly sure how it’s possible he can know this, but it feels true, somehow: he feels like a nomaj.

Steve pulls back from the kiss and stares at Tony in surprise. Tony wears mischievous look, focused entirely on Steve, and then blinks a few times, breaking his concentration.

The sensation fades, and Steve takes a deep breath, feeling what must be his power rushing back to him.

“ _Whoa_ ,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees.

“That was—”

“I _know_ ,” Tony titters. “I’m learning to control it.”

Steve huffs a laugh, awed. Cerrera or Stark, Non-magical or anti-magical… it doesn’t matter. He loves Tony so much.

“This isn’t a panacea, you know,” Tony goes on, more seriously. “It’s… kind of the opposite. No more magical fixes to mundane injuries for me now. No healing potions, anapeo charms, skele-grow… None of it will work on me. We still have to be careful when we’re... avenging.”

Steve takes Tony’s gorgeous face in his hands, and leans in to press his forehead to Tony’s. “I’m just happy I don’t have to avenge _you_ ,” he says hoarsely.

Tony nuzzles Steve back, then pulls away, just a few inches; his gaze dips, and his voice is quiet when he speaks again.

“Thank you for coming to save me. I was worried if you did, Doom would try to use your power to turn you into a bomb. In a way, I almost hoped you wouldn’t try to come for me.” He looks back up at Steve warmly. “But you did anyway.”

His smile fades again. “I’m really sorry you lost your bracers, though—er, well, the orb. I know you loved your spellshield.”

In addition to being the most brilliant person Steve’s ever met, Tony took a killing curse for him. He owes this man his life, and Tony is telling him how sorry he is?

 _“You’re_ my spellshield,” Steve whispers.

Tony gives Steve a lopsided grin. “Maybe I am. But. Just in case I’m not with you every single second of the day, I wanted you to have something. I was working on a physical one.”

Tony takes half a step away, giving himself some space to gesture, eyes sparkling with excitement.

Classic Tony Stark Planning Face. Steve smiles back.

“RI has been prototyping with this new material—”

“Vibranium?” Steve recalls. “Rhodes mentioned it to me.”

“Yes!” Tony points enthusiastically at Steve in affirmation. “I was even thinking Wanda could enchant it, get it to be even more powerful, make it fly around, or bounce off walls or something.”

Steve narrows his eyes warily. He’s seen a bouncing shield before, in some of the _other_ reading he’s been doing lately.

“This ends with me wearing the Captain America outfit doesn’t it? With the… what did you call them? Booty shorts?”

“No,” Tony denies, then blushes. “I mean, maybe for my birthday. And our anniversary. And special occasions. As a personal favor.”

Steve throws his head back and laughs.

“I,” he quotes Tony’s frequent promise back to him, “can work with that.”

Tony glances at his phone, checking the time, and, apparently spurred by what he sees there, jogs away from Steve toward the supply closet near the break room entrance.

“And on that note, Cap, we’ve got 20 minutes before everyone else gets here, and we need to make the most of it.”

Tony wants to—? _Now?_ With everyone already on their way?

“Uhm—” stammers Steve. “I didn’t think we would—ah—”

“ _No_ ,” Tony chides, voice muted as he reaches inside the closet, digging around. “Not like _that_.” He leans out past the door and waggles his eyebrows at Steve. “Not that I wouldn’t love to later, but—” he looks back into the doorway, “—ah, _there_ we go.”

Tony emerges triumphantly, holding up… a broom. Not some push broom for sweeping the lab floor: a proper racing broom.

“Catch,” Tony says, and tosses the broom to Steve.

The graceful contours of handle catch the light. It’s made of a polished mahogany, sturdy but with some flex, perfect for riding. Toward its end, the handle is wrapped a whiskey colored leather sleeve, perfect for gripping. The bristles are full, wrapped with care, and taper to a graceful elegant point.

 _ **Comet 616,**_ the logo etched into the left side says.

“That’s a pre-release,” Tony says, nodding at the broom. “The six-hundred series doesn’t come out until the fall. I got one of their sales witches a new Stark Equinox 7 tee-dub with an unlimited conjuring plan,” he explains, “And she got me one of those.”

“It’s gorgeous, Tony,” Steve says sincerely, running his fingers reverently along the handle. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey,” Tony ducks back into the closet one more time. “I got some upgrades, too.”

Tony closes the door as he holds up his jet boots and gloves. They look like they’ve been polished, but more importantly, they have a new paint job: red and gold, just like in Tony’s schematic.

“Would you like—” Tony starts.

“ _Yes,_ ” Steve cuts him off, unable to contain his delight. “Please.”

Tony straps on the boots and affixes the gauntlets as fast as he can, then makes a run for the door—pausing, of course, to grab Steve’s butt as he passes him.

“Hey!” Steve protests half-heartedly, pitch rising.

Tony grins cheekily. “Race you to the Empire State Building?” he challenges.

“You’re on,” Steve returns.

They sprint toward the door and across the balcony, Steve throwing leg over his Comet while Tony leaps into the air.

The sun is setting, the entire city reflecting hues of pink and orange; it wouldn’t look more beautiful if it was enchanted.

The broom handles like a dream and Steve just knows he’s going to beat Tony to their destination. Tony’s had a hard week. Maybe Steve should go easy on him—

His thoughts are interrupted when Tony bursts up, [doing a showy summersault and giving a whooping cry as he passes Steve by.](https://68.media.tumblr.com/fb7dc5c8bd1a251f20f4ac52ccdfa84a/tumblr_ork1vueRax1sqw779o4_1280.jpg)

“See you later, slowpoke!” he taunts as he accelerates away, jets glowing even brighter.

Guess those are the upgrades Tony mentioned.

Steve scowls playfully and leans forward on his broom, preparing to give chase. Tony’s not going to get away from him that easily.

He races after his boyfriend, soaring into the twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The END!
> 
> -First off, huge props to Sarah at [<http://notbecauseofvictories.tumblr.com/>] who gave me permission to namecheck Chess, aka the [Chicago School for Sorcery](http://notbecauseofvictories.tumblr.com/tagged/chicago-school-for-sorcery). It’s a brilliant bit of metafiction incorporating all kinds of Chicago history and traditions, and I highly encourage you to read the whole tag; it’s waaaay waaaay better than what J.K. hastily and largely insensitively threw together for her Wizarding World history in the US.
> 
> \- From [People’s Garment Co](https://peoplesgarmentco.com/products/copy-of-chicago-studebaker-flyers-1942): "The [Chicago Studebaker Flyers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Studebaker_Flyers) were a National Basketball League team from 1942 to 1943. They were funded by the United Auto Workers and replaced George Halas' Chicago Bruins, who folded in 1942. The team was an early experiment in integration, featuring at least eight African American players, most former Harlem Globetrotters.” A flying car seemed too good a logo not to use for a quidditch team, and given young Steve’s interest in a Chicago wizarding school, they seemed a likely team for him to support.  
> \- Steve Englehart (<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Englehart>) is the Cap writer responsible for giving us Nomad (thanks, Steve XD). I was going to call the bakery “Gruenwald’s” but I was afraid it would be confusing this universe; it sounds too much like Grindelwald. These ideas are both, of course, nods to the inclusion of “Brubaker’s Bakery” in Avengers Assemble. ([x](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/MythologyGag/AvengersAssemble))  
> \- I didn’t know this until after I named my WANDD, but SHIELD 616 actually does have a [WAND](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S.H.I.E.L.D.#W.A.N.D.): the Wizardry Alchemy and Necromancy Department.   
> \- Not dissimilar from Petter Pettigrew and his little finger, Bucky is definitely alive, sans arm; I wonder how a long term Imperio curse would affect someone’s mind, hm?…  
> \- Re: steve’s wands, Sycamore wands are known for being fickle and becoming bored—probably a bad choice for a young wizard, in addition to all the problems one might have with a hand-me-down wand that didn’t “choose” them. Alder wands are well suited to wordless magic, which I feel might be the next best thing for Steve in lieu entirely wandless magic. Both Alder and Sycamore are native to Ireland.  
> \- Tug is a real hospital robot, as are many of the others mentioned, based on this [article](https://mic.com/articles/118712/9-awesome-robots-that-are-helping-to-save-the-world#.JuAL7SGlG)  
> \- Bobbi can 'sense feelings' in her very early canon appearances, not to mention her ESP-like abilities in her recent solo book, hence her being a Legilaffex (feelings reader) here.  
> - The Bar With No Doors is, of course, where Dr Strange, Wanda, Brother Voodoo and all the canon magic users in 616 hang out.  
> \- Operation Dragon is meant to be the magical military equivalent of Operation Dragoon [<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Dragoon>]  
> \- Agent Brand has green hair in 616; she’s presented here as a Metamorphmagus like Tonks. I suspect her boyfriend, Agent McCoy, is one as well. ;)  
> \- Olive Garden scene is 1000% inspired [by this amazing twitter thread](http://nymag.com/selectall/2017/04/the-secrets-of-the-times-square-olive-garden-revealed.html), as well as the ‘stuffing breadsticks in my purse’ meme.  
> \- The [Night Witches](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_Witches) were female Russian aviators in world war II.  
>  - I daresay Wanda Maximoff and Ariana Dumbledore have a lot in common in this ‘verse. Could there be an incident involving “no more wizards” perhaps? W-day? :O  
> \- Re: Wonder Woman, that one’s for you, @shetlandowl and @tonystarkier ;)  
> \- Tony’s Captain America quote is from Avengers Vol 5, issue 34, i.e. Hickmanvengers. My first instinct was to use the “no, you move” speech, but I needed a break from that one, and I feel like this one gets more to the heart of what Tony’s trying to say, anyway. It’s… actually way less pretentious when Squib!Tony says it than when Cap does, IMO, hahaha.
> 
> If you liked that, I'm thinking about writing an epilogue, so feel free to subscribe to the fic to get updates.


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